#self-dissolving robots

[scienceswitch]

Self-Destructing Military Robots Can Carry Out Recon And Then Dissolve Into Nothing

Engineers have developed soft, rubbery robots that carry out functions as usual but then liquefy on demand when exposed to ultraviolet (UV) light. This new technology enables flexible machines with programmable lifespans and could lead to self-destructing robots that protect sensitive data. The researchers, as per the paper published in the journal Science Advances, fabricated stretchable robots…

[redvexillum]

A/N: Big Smoll Sad.

SUMMARY: You are a once-celebrated painter, your glory long faded and your passion for art extinguished. That is, until you meet an enigmatic man named Luci, who sparks something inside you that you thought was lost forever.

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, human reader, devil!lucifer, lucifer is still hung up on lilith, lucifer in the human world, emotional smut, p in v, implied suicide, reader is an artist, this is still smutmas cuz the banner says so uwu

These days, the world blurs into an indistinct haze, a cacophony of shapes and sounds dissolving into the murky canvas of your mind. Faces, once vivid and meaningful, bleed away like rain washing over a forgotten oil painting—its vibrant hues smeared into lifeless swirls of muddy browns and bruised blacks, spiralling endlessly until only the void remains. The warmth and colour of life have long fled, leaving you adrift in a landscape of shadows, a ghost wandering streets that no longer seem to belong to you. You search, desperate, for that elusive spark—the incandescent flame that once ignited your soul and commanded the awe of countless spectators. 

But the spark never comes. It’s as though some divine hand had once granted you a finite wellspring of brilliance, only to cruelly empty it when you needed it most. You are hollow now, an artist reduced to a shell of their former self, withering under the weight of your own irrelevance. Your fingers tremble as they trace lines meant to evoke wonder, but every stroke feels misplaced, every attempt an abomination. The canvas mocks you with its lifelessness, each brushstroke a reminder of what you once were and can never be again. You clutch at fragments of your past triumphs, their glow dimmed by time, yet even their memory cuts deeper than any blade. A prodigy no longer; you are forgotten, decaying in the shadow of the glory that has long since turned to ash. 

The familiar bell jingled as you stumbled into the card shop once again, your movements robotic, rehearsed. The shopkeeper glanced up briefly, his expression blank before he returned to sorting inventory, dismissing you as just another nuisance. He didn’t need to say it aloud—you were the unpaying regular, an unremarkable ghost haunting his space. Without fail, you gravitated to the same display rack: rows of garish cards depicting ducks in absurd costumes. 

There they were—pirate ducks, wizard ducks, detective ducks—all locked in cartoonish battles for supremacy. Duck Battle. The game that bore your fingerprints, your long nights, your fleeting dreams. It was a runaway success, a pop-culture juggernaut that earned you enough royalties to live comfortably. 

And yet, the thought of it felt like swallowing acid. 

Your gaze settled on one card, the cheerful caricature of a duck in a jester’s hat. Its painted eyes stared back, unblinking, its crooked smile warped into cruel mockery. A sudden tightness seized your throat, invisible hands wrapping around your neck with the weight of unspoken expectations. Your parents’ faces surfaced in your mind, their quiet disappointment etched into every wrinkle, their smiles brittle under the strain of politeness. 

Breathe. You reminded yourself. 

But the air felt paper-thin, each inhalation shallow, scraping against the walls of your lungs. Tears prickled at the edges of your vision, hot and traitorous, threatening to spill over. You blinked them back, swallowing the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to stand still. No one could see this weakness—not here, not anywhere. 

Your fingernails dug into your forearms, the sting sharp and grounding, a desperate tether to the present. Slowly, the world sharpened, the dull haze retreating just enough to let you see. But the ache remained, burrowing deep. 

Masahiro Yokotani’s words drifted through your mind like an unwelcome whisper: “When you’re ten, they call you a prodigy. When you’re fifteen, they call you a genius. But once you hit twenty, you’re just a normal person.” 

A normal person. 

Being ordinary wasn’t inherently wrong. It wasn’t a curse, not for most. But for you, it was a sentence, a punishment for daring to matter once, for daring to believe you were special. Your success was the only currency you had ever known—the only thing that earned you love, admiration, or even the illusion of belonging. 

Without it, who were you?

Your fists clenched, trembling with suppressed anger as the jester duck continued to grin, mocking you. For a fleeting moment, you wanted to rip the cards from the rack, scatter them across the floor, destroy them one by one until they were nothing but shreds of paper and ink. You wanted to scream, to rage against the machine that had turned your passion into a product. 

But what good would it do? 

Somewhere along the way, the success you’d once celebrated had become a cage. The art you’d poured your soul into was no longer yours. It was a commodity, stripped of meaning, stripped of you. People didn’t see the blood, the sleepless nights, the fleeting moments of joy. 

All they saw was a game. 

A product to consume. 

To discard. 

To forget. 

If you couldn’t amaze them, if you couldn’t create the next masterpiece, you were nothing. 

And if you couldn’t meet their expectations, fulfill their demands... 

You were less than nothing. 

The thought wrapped around your mind like frost, numbing, relentless. 

You weren’t talented. 

You were just lucky. 

You weren’t creative. 

You had connections. 

You weren’t special. 

You were nothing worth keeping. Nothing worth loving. 

Your breath came slower now, shallow and cold. A shiver coursed through you, though you weren’t sure if it was from the temperature or the weight pressing down on your chest.  

Like clockwork, you turned to leave, your movements mechanical, resigned. But just as your hand brushed the door, a figure caught your eye—a man stepping past you with an air of quiet purpose. His hair was a cascade of gold, catching the pale shop light like threads of sunlight, and his eyes were startlingly blue, the kind of vivid sapphire that seemed to hold secrets of oceans untold. 

He moved straight to the duck cards. 

It was almost comical, the way he held a cloth basket with casual confidence, scooping up deck after deck as though stocking for an army of duck enthusiasts. He plucked every box of booster packs from the display, piling them into his basket without a second thought. You blinked, stunned, your lips parting as you struggled to process the absurdity of the scene before you. 

“Hey, leave some for the others,” the shopkeeper grumbled, his voice gruff with annoyance. 

The interruption jolted you into noticing the man behind the counter for the first time in months. His wiry frame and sallow complexion struck you in their starkness, his dark, greasy hair hanging limp around his face. It was strange—how had you been coming here for years without ever truly seeing him? 

“Oh, r-right,” the blonde man stammered, a sheepish smile curving his lips. His attire was... peculiar. He wore a pristine white three-piece suit, his vest adorned with red and white stripes that ended in a dramatic two-tailed flourish. He stood out like a figure from a different world, but it was his eyes that mesmerized you most—jewel-like and shimmering, their hues shifting like sunlight on rippling water. 

Your fingers twitched. That long-dead ember inside you flickered, faint but undeniable. 

The man’s lips pursed as if in thought, and with exaggerated care, he removed a single booster pack from his basket and placed it back on the counter. Not a box, but one lone pack. The absurdity of the gesture bubbled up in your chest, breaking free as a soft, unguarded laugh. 

The sound startled you—it felt foreign, like it didn’t belong to you anymore. But it also startled him. His head snapped in your direction, his cheeks flushing as his eyes dropped, uncharacteristically shy. 

Something shifted in you then, fragile yet profound, like the crack of ice revealing the flowing river beneath. 

Summoning a hesitant smile, you stepped forward, reaching for the lone booster pack. Your hand brushed the tin foil wrapper, and for the first time in months, you held it without bitterness. “I’d like to buy this,” you said, your voice rasping from disuse. 

The shopkeeper raised a brow but said nothing, punching the numbers into the register. 

“$6.21,” he said flatly. 

You handed him the money, feeling the booster pack’s weight in your hands—and for once, the bitter feeling of wanting to rip it to shred was absent within you.

As you stepped outside, the winter air nipped at your skin, sharp and biting. You lingered near the door, the booster pack clutched tightly in your hands, its glossy surface catching the faint sunlight. The art you had poured countless agonizing hours began to surface in your mind, the colours dulling as memories of your efforts melted away like candle wax under flame. 

Then, the sharp chime of the shop’s bell rang out, pulling you from your spiral. The man stepped out, his bag stuffed to the brim with his purchases. 

“Uhm,” you called, the word catching in your throat. 

He turned, his expression open and curious. When his gaze met yours, his lips curved into a gentle smile. “What’s up,kiddo?” 

You faltered, your brows furrowing. He didn’t look much older than you, so the greeting felt oddly misplaced. Still, you thrust the booster pack toward him, your fingers trembling slightly. “H-here,” you stammered, your gaze skittering from his eyes to the scuffed tips of his black boots, then down to the icy ground. “Y-you’d probably enjoy this m-more than me.” 

His expression softened, surprise flickering across his features. “A-are you sure?” he asked, hesitant. 

You could only nod, your throat too tight for words. Your eyes stayed fixed on the ground, unwilling to meet his. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, taking the pack with a reverence that made your chest ache in a way that wasn’t entirely painful. 

You felt it—the fleeting warmth of his fingers brushing yours as he took the pack. It was barely a second, but it left an impression, highlighting the chill that seeped into your bones on this cold winter day. “W-well, I-I hope you enjoy,” you murmured, your voice faltering as you prepared to turn away, to retreat as you always did. 

But his voice stopped you. 

“W-wait.” 

Your body stiffened, your breath catching. Slowly, you turned back, your gaze lifting cautiously. His smile was gentle, inviting, radiating a warmth you hadn’t felt in what seemed like lifetimes. “D-do you want to open them together?” he asked, his grin broadening, something so bright in his expression that it reminded you of the sun breaking through storm clouds. 

It had been so long since anyone had asked to spend time with you. 

And your time—your energy—always felt so fleeting. 

Still, with a shaky smile and a flutter of nerves in your chest, you nodded. Heat crept up your cheeks, embarrassing in its intensity. You worried—panicked, even. Would he find you dull? Would he regret inviting someone like you, someone who had nothing to offer except the remnants of a fading career? 

You hoped, desperately, that he wouldn’t. 

You walked side by side with the stranger, whose name you now knew as Luci. His voice was light, brimming with enthusiasm as he shared bits of himself—his love for ducks, his daughter, his wife. You listened, half-focused, half-distracted by the echo of warnings ingrained in your mind: don’t follow strangers; it’s dangerous.

Yet, you wondered. If he were to hurt you, would it even matter? 

You brushed the thought aside as his warmth began to melt your trepidation, his words weaving a strange sense of comfort around you. His anecdotes were simple, endearing, and as he spoke about his family, an ache blossomed deep in your chest. 

Jealousy, sharp and bitter, coiled through you. What would it feel like to be loved like that? To be cherished so completely, so unconditionally? 

Your thoughts strayed to your own parents, and you felt it again—the invisible noose tightening around your throat. You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat refusing to yield. You forced a bright smile onto your face, desperate to focus on him, on his words, his expressive gestures, the way his eyes gleamed like cut gemstones catching the light. 

Then he laughed, a sound so rich with joy that it seemed to chase away the cold clinging to you. He launched into a story about a duck-shaped toy that blew bath bubbles, one he had designed with his daughter. His animated retelling painted the chaotic scene vividly: bubbles everywhere, a floor turned slick, his wife caught between frustration and uncontrollable laughter as they all slipped and slid around like fools. 

The genuine delight in his voice made something inside you stir, fragile but real. You clung to it, that warmth. It spread, tentative, but enough to pull a soft giggle from your lips. 

Luci stopped mid-step, his eyes widening slightly before a wide, toothy grin overtook his face. “You have a beautiful laugh,” he said simply, with honesty that caught you off guard. 

The compliment was unexpected, and you coughed, your cheeks igniting with heat. Your mind raced, urging you to say thank you, or anything at all to fill the awkward silence. But your lips refused to cooperate, frozen in uncertainty. 

Before you could stumble over a response, Luci stopped in front of a small building—a café, its soft glow spilling out onto the street like a promise of warmth. Luci’s voice broke through your thoughts. “Ah, we’re here! I’ve heard they make the best banana nut muffin, so I wanted to try it before I go back!” He held the door open, the light catching his golden hair and the shimmer of his grin. 

As he pushed open the door, the soft chime of a bell rang out—a gentle, almost musical sound, like wind chimes caught in a summer breeze. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wrapped around you, rich and warm, inviting you to linger. The walls were painted a soft pastel yellow, their brightness tempered by dim, cozy lighting that gave the café a feeling of safety, of comfort. 

The space was intimate, and aside from you and Luci, it was empty. From the back emerged a stout woman with a radiant smile, her long black curls bouncing slightly as she walked. Her green apron was worn but clean, a testament to her work here. “Welcome!” she greeted warmly, her voice carrying the cheer of someone genuinely glad to see you. “What can I get ya folks?” 

Luci turned to you, and with a grin, he asked, “Want a banana nut muffin?” 

Your throat constricted slightly as you struggled to respond. A simple yes or no would have been enough, but your isolation had left you fumbling for basic social graces. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, you could hear the sharp voice of your mother, her criticisms cutting deep. How unbecoming, her voice whispered in a memory you couldn’t quite escape. 

You reached into your pocket for your wallet, your fingers clumsy with nerves. “L-let me p-pay,” you stammered, your voice cracking into something embarrassingly high-pitched. 

Luci chuckled, a soft, disarming sound that somehow made the tension in your chest ease. He patted your shoulder, his touch brief but grounding. “It’ll be my treat, sport,” he said with a playful grin. “For the pack,” he added, waggling his brows in exaggerated humour. 

Before you could protest further, he ordered two muffins and herded you to a table with two chairs in the corner. The space felt smaller as you followed, the warmth of the café suddenly claustrophobic under the weight of your thoughts. 

Sitting across from him, you watched as he rummaged through his bag, his energy infectious. He pulled out a small stack of booster packs, his expression bright with unfiltered glee. 

“These are my favourites,” he said as he held up a pack, his excitement as radiant as a child opening a long-awaited gift on Christmas morning. “I have all the cards from the first wave of Duck Battle releases!” His voice was filled with pride, his fingers already tearing into the foil wrapping. “I just had to come up here when I heard they released the second wave after two years!” 

His words swirled in your mind, dissonant against the memories rising like a tide. Your hands, hidden under the table, clenched into fists. Your fingers dug into your palms, grounding you against the maelstrom of emotions. 

You had drawn those silly ducks in their costumes, poured hours into creating gadgets, props, and absurd scenarios. Two hundred and fifty illustrations, each more uninspired than the last. You remembered the exhaustion, the growing sense of emptiness that swallowed you whole. 

“What do you like about them?” you asked softly, your voice fragile. You cleared your throat, trying to sound steady as you felt an unwelcome wave of bitterness threatening to rise. 

Luci’s blue eyes lit up as he looked up from the cards, his smile unguarded. “Oh, where do I even start!” he exclaimed, holding up a card to show you. “Aside from the fact that they’re ducks, just look at them! The costumes, the gadgets—they’re so clever, so fun!” 

He turned the card in his hand, his admiration genuine, his joy untainted. And as he spoke, your chest tightened, caught between envy and a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of pride. 

Luci held up a card, its surface shimmering with the golden foil that marked it as rare. Your eyes fell on the image—a duck in swimming trunks and sunglasses, wielding a sword alive with swirling water. The memory of creating it surged forward, unwelcome and sharp. 

You remembered the day you drew that card. The day everything inside you cracked open. You had screamed into the hollow silence of your room, pages of drafts torn apart and scattered around you like confetti from some cruel, mocking parade. Your voice had grown raw as you told yourself, over and over, that you were done. 

That you’d quit. 

But quitting was a lie you couldn’t tell yourself for long. 

The words of self-loathing had been relentless: 

Everything you create is garbage. 

This opportunity only exists because of your parents. 

You’re a shadow, fading and inconsequential compared to their brilliance. 

And yet, like some twisted masochist, you’d dragged yourself back to your desk the next morning. 

There had been no joy in it—only pain. The siren call to create, once your solace, had become a piercing scream you couldn’t silence. The pencil in your hand had felt like a blade, its grip carving into you as you pushed yourself to the brink. Your fingers had cramped, the skin blistering until it split and bled. 

You hadn’t stopped. 

You couldn't.

Because drawing wasn’t just something you did—it was a part of you. An integral piece of your existence, impossible to sever, no matter how much you might have wanted to. 

Now, that duck—a creation born from your anguish—stared back at you in Luci’s hands, a mirror of a piece of yourself you hated. His voice broke through the haze, brimming with enthusiasm as he babbled about the card, his words high with praise. 

You should have felt pride. Gratitude. Joy, even. But you didn’t. 

Instead, his praise slid over you, leaving nothing behind but the familiar ache of inadequacy. Why can’t I accept this?you thought bitterly. It was as if his words belonged to someone else, someone who deserved them. 

Someone you were not. 

So you smiled. Nodded. Pretended.

When the plate of banana nut muffin arrived, the scent of warm cinnamon wafting up, you glanced down at it. A dollop of whipped cream sat artfully on the side, dusted with cinnamon. You hadn’t eaten anything substantial all day, yet the hunger that should have gnawed at you was absent, swallowed by a numbness you couldn’t quite shake. 

Luci took a bite and moaned in delight, rolling his eyes dramatically. “This is absolutely delicious! Charlie would love this!” he said with a grin, taking another hearty bite. His joy was infectious, yet it stayed just out of reach for you. 

He paused mid-bite, his expression sheepish as he pushed a booster pack across the table toward you. “Oh, golly! I should’ve had you open some with me,” he said with a laugh, gesturing to the small pile of torn foil and neatly stacked cards already in front of him. 

You ran your thumb along the seam of the unopened pack, the texture sharp against your skin. “I don’t mind you opening them all,” you murmured softly, your gaze fixed on the faint silver glint of the packaging. 

“Nonsense!” Luci declared, his grin bright and unwavering. “You might pull the ultra-rare Count Duckula! Come on, it’s all in the fun.” 

He dragged his chair closer, the legs scraping lightly against the tiled floor. His knees bounced with childlike anticipation, a rhythm of barely contained excitement. 

You forced a small smile, though your hands betrayed you, trembling as they fumbled with the pack’s edge. The foil tore with a soft rip, the sound somehow louder in the quiet café. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d opened one of these. The promotional box they’d sent you months ago sat untouched in some forgotten corner of your home, buried under stacks of other projects. 

Carefully, you drew out the stack of six cards and flipped through them, revealing each one in turn. 

All common - trash - cards. 

How painfully typical. 

“S-sorry,” you murmured, a hollow laugh escaping your lips. “It looks like I don’t have good luck. Maybe you should open the rest?” 

“Nonsense,” Luci said again, his voice gentler this time. He reached out and took the cards from your hand with surprising care, as if each one were a delicate treasure. His expression softened as he studied them, pausing on a trio of ducks huddled together. 

“I like this one the best,” he said, turning the card so you could see it more clearly. 

The illustration stared back at you, the familiar design almost mocking in its simplicity. The card was called Duck Gang, but when you’d drawn it… you thought of...

“It’s like a family,” Luci murmured, his tone thoughtful as he turned the card back toward himself. “I already have forty-five of these, but I can’t help collecting them. They’re one of my favourites.” 

Your chest tightened. The smile on your lips sharpened into something brittle, edged with bitterness. “T-that’s a lot,” you said, your voice cold, a contrast to the warmth in his. “You should consider selling them. They’re common, after all. Trash cards, really. Probably won’t get much for them.” 

You picked up your fork and poked at the muffin on your plate, the sweetness of it utterly unappealing. The bitterness inside you, however, only grew, swelling like a tide threatening to pull you under. Your eyes flicked back to the card, the garish trio of ducks resembling parents and a child more than any sort of gang. 

“I-I could get you all the rares,” you added, the words spilling out with a sharp edge. “If you'd like.” 

Luci paused, his expression unchanging as he looked up at you. His ever-enigmatic demeanour shifted, and then, unexpectedly, he laughed—a warm, easy sound. A few golden strands slipped loose from his carefully styled hair, brushing against his cheek. 

“The fun of it is in opening the packs and seeing what you get!” he said, reaching for another booster pack. He tore it open with practised ease, glancing through the cards until his face lit up like the sun breaking through a heavy storm. 

“No way!” he gasped, holding up a foil-covered card with both hands. His blue eyes shimmered with delight, his toothy grin nearly splitting his face as he revealed the ultra-rare Count Duckula. 

His reaction was so dramatic, so comically over-the-top, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of something unexpected. In the small space of that quiet café, amidst the warmth of yellow walls and the scent of coffee, you felt something stir inside you. 

Something warm. 

Something… meaningful.

It wasn’t like the cold, impersonal emails you received from your agency, filled with spreadsheets and data points. Those soulless reports quantified your work with meticulous precision—what cards sold best, which ones fetched high prices, which ones were deemed worthless. 

None of it ever reflected the time, the effort, or the pieces of yourself you poured into every illustration. 

At some point, you’d begun to wonder: if you couldn’t draw, if you couldn’t find joy in creation, had you already reached your expiration date? 

It was a morbid thought—one that clung to you like a shadow. But now, hilariously, pathetically, sitting across from Luci, a stranger you’d known for less than an hour, a flicker of something stirred. For the first time in a long time, you wanted to draw. Not for a paycheck, not for numbers on a spreadsheet, but simply because it might make someone else happy. 

Because it might make him happy. 

You almost laughed as you reached into your purse, finding the small drawing notepad you still carried. Half its pages were filled with scribbles—angry, chaotic lines etched so deeply they scarred the next page. Proof of countless attempts to destroy your own work, to obliterate the things you hated about yourself. 

Flipping to the back, you grabbed a pen and hesitated. 

“I, uh… if y-you don’t mind,” you stammered, your heart racing in your chest, “I-I could draw that trio of ducks for you?” 

The words were out before you could stop them, and regret hit you like a wave. Why had you offered to draw something so… mundane? Why not Count Duckula, the ultra-rare? Why would a stranger even want your scribbles? Heat rose in your cheeks, and you forced a trembling smile as you flipped the notepad shut, shrinking into yourself. 

You should take the muffin to go, you thought bitterly. Make your excuses and return to the solitude of your home where no one could see your failures. 

Before you could muster the courage to leave, Luci slapped his hands to his cheeks, his eyes widening with delight. “Oh, are you an artist?” he asked, his voice brimming with wonder. He leaned forward, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered in his expression—a shadow of pain, perhaps, or maybe it was just the light. 

“I… guess I’m somewhat of an artist,” you mumbled, the words faltering as they left your lips. 

He squealed like a delighted child, his feet tapping against the floor. Clasping his hands together, he grinned. “Can you draw a trio of ducks, but it’s Lucifer, Lilith, and their daughter?” 

You blinked. Once. Twice. 

“That’s… an interesting request,” you murmured, tilting your head. Was he serious? Perhaps he was a Satanist? Would drawing demons as ducks count as blasphemy? And did Lucifer and Lilith even have a daughter? 

“Uhm…” you hesitated, glancing up at his expectant face. His excitement was so genuine, so infectious, that you couldn’t bring yourself to say no. “Do you, uh, have a specific idea for how they should look, or…?” 

“Oh no,” Luci waved a hand dismissively. “I’m more interested in how you envision them!” 

Drawing from the dry well of your creativity felt like squeezing water from a stone. You started with the horns—predictable—and then added wings and a smattering of devilish details. The lines felt shaky, the proportions wrong, the designs uninspired. 

The pen trembled in your hand as doubt crept in. This isn’t good enough, the voice in your head hissed. The shapes are off. The lines are wonky. The urge to scribble over the drawing, to obliterate it into oblivion, burned in your chest. You needed to start over. 

Again and again. 

Again. Until it was perfect. 

Again. Until it was worthy. 

You simply had to get better, do better, be better. 

But Luci’s voice broke through the storm in your mind. “I love it!” he exclaimed, leaning so close you thought he might fall into the table. His eyes sparkled as he admired the doodle. “Oh, gosh, this is wonderful!” 

Your throat tightened as you fought back tears. Why? Why did he like it? Couldn’t he see the flaws, the imperfections? 

“Can I keep it?” he asked, his voice soft with a childlike eagerness. 

You couldn’t speak. The words refused to come, so you gave him a faint nod, you tore the sheet of paper from your notepad, the sound sharp and final, and handed it to him with trembling fingers. Luci accepted it like it was the most precious thing in the world, holding it gently as if it might crumble in his hands. He studied your drawing with a small, wistful smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. 

“I really do… love it when humans create,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. The words seemed to carry more weight than they should, as though they held the remnants of a truth too fragile to speak aloud. 

“Truly,” he added, his lower lip quivering. He cleared his throat quickly, blinking rapidly before replacing the moment of vulnerability with a wide, goofy grin. 

Luci was an enigma. There was something off about him—an air, a presence—that felt out of place in your ordinary, grey world. It was as if he didn’t belong here, as if he were a splash of colour painted into a monochrome existence. 

Perhaps...

...that was why you were drawn to him. 

To the warmth he seemed to radiate so effortlessly. It was gentle, inviting, and for the first time in a long time, the relentless voices in your mind—the ones that berated you for every perceived failure—began to dim. Their harsh accusations softened to murmurs, then to silence. 

Time blurred. The two of you sat there in the café, opening booster packs side by side. Cups of coffee were ordered and refilled, their rich aroma mingling with the sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon. The banana nut muffin you’d shared lingered on your tongue, a surprising comfort. The bell above the door tinkled softly as customers came and went, yet the world beyond your table felt distant, unimportant. 

It was... odd. 

But it wasn’t unpleasant. 

Luci’s laughter, clear and joyful, broke through your defences. Each genuine compliment he gave, each silly comment, seemed to chip away at the invisible weight pressing down on you. By the time you reached the last booster pack, you felt lighter��like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as broken as you believed. 

“You should open it,” Luci said, handing you the final pack. His grin was as bright as ever. 

“I… don’t think I should,” you hesitated, glancing at the disappointing stack of cards you’d already opened. Your luck had been abysmal—nearly all duplicates, with the best being a single uncommon card. 

“Oh, don't be a silly goose!” Luci declared, snapping his fingers with dramatic flair before pointing at the foil-wrapped pack in your hand. “I have a feeling you’re going to pull the ultra-super-rare card!” He nodded to himself, then added a playful wink that made you giggle despite yourself. 

“Really?” you asked, your voice coloured with disbelief but softened by his contagious enthusiasm. 

“Really,” he said with the conviction of someone who had already seen the future. 

His persistence left you with little choice. “Alright,” you sighed, shaking your head with a small smile. You opened the pack, shuffling through the cards one by one until you froze. 

Your breath caught in your throat. 

There, in your hands, was the card. 

The Angelic Duck. 

Its pastel sky shimmered under the café’s light, the holographic wings moving as you tilted the card back and forth. You remembered the company mentioning this card—a one-in-a-million rarity, with only two released in the entire wave. It was surreal, almost impossible. 

“See!” Luci beamed, his eyes sparkling with triumph. “You’re not unlucky, sweetie.” His voice softened, and his gaze lingered on you for just a moment too long. “Trust me.” 

For a second, you felt his words meant something more than they seemed. That he wasn’t just talking about the card but about you. About the parts of yourself you couldn’t see, the worth you struggled to believe in. 

But the feeling slipped away, ephemeral as sand through your fingers. It was wishful thinking. 

Nothing more. 

You wet your lips, hesitating, the words caught in your throat. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat deafening in your ears. Finally, you managed to whisper, “W-Will... could I see you again?” 

His eyes flickered with surprise, and heat flooded your cheeks. You pressed on, stumbling over your words. “I-I could sh-show you around. If… if you’re not leaving right away.” 

Your voice wavered, trembling under the weight of your certainty that he would say no. It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? To ask something so personal of a stranger? Your body tensed, bracing for rejection, for the polite but distant smile, for the inevitable goodbye that would leave you sitting alone with nothing but your thoughts. 

Luci paused, his brows knitting together, the cheerful light in his expression dimming ever so slightly. For the first time, his bright, untroubled smile faltered, casting a shadow on the radiance you had marvelled at moments ago. 

You panicked, stumbling over your words. “I-it’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice trembling with embarrassment. “I-if you’re busy, it’s...” You laughed softly, awkwardly, trying to ease the tension you felt growing between you. “It’s alright, really.” 

But he shook his head almost immediately, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “N-no, no,” he said, his tone hesitant but earnest. “I… I’m sure I can extend my stay a little bit.” 

You blinked, the breath catching in your throat as his words sank in. Then, slowly, you smiled. Not the kind of smile you had grown so accustomed to—a mask to hide the tumult of insecurities and self-loathing inside—but a real, unguarded smile. 

It was a smile born from something tender and fragile, a memory of warmth long buried beneath years of disappointment. 

It reminded you of the joy you felt when your parents had first framed one of your paintings, proudly displaying it for all to see. 

It reminded you of painting freely as a child, the way you used to let your imagination spill onto the canvas without fear or doubt. 

It reminded you of the times when creating wasn’t a burden but a blessing, a purpose you held close to your heart. 

It was a smile you thought you had lost forever. 

When you returned home after bidding Luci farewell at the café—his phone number now scrawled in your notepad—you immediately shivered. The icy chill of the wooden floors seeped into your bare feet, the house as unwelcoming as ever. 

The space was barren, devoid of life or personality. Discarded papers littered the floor, mingling with pencil shavings and eraser bits. It wasn’t a home. It was a prison—a hollow shell where the bare necessities existed, but nothing more. 

Your eyes caught the calendar hanging crookedly on the wall. A bold red X marked a date two days away, stark against the empty squares around it. 

You stared at it, your stomach twisting. That day had been carefully planned. It was supposed to be the day. 

But then you thought of Luci. Of his warmth, his light, and the promise you made to show him around. The thought of breaking that promise filled you with an unfamiliar pang of guilt. 

Surely, a week longer would be fine… right? 

Your fingers closed around a red marker that had laid lifelessly on the floor. Emotionlessly, mechanically, your hand hovered over December 26, a week from now, then moved with deliberate finality, slashing a thick red X over the date. 

The pen clattered back to the floor as you dropped it, its sound echoing in the silence. 

You turned to the cluttered table in the corner, the surface buried under half-finished sketches of ducks and crumpled ideas. With a heavy sigh, you sank into the chair, your head bowing as you stared at the blank page in front of you. 

The company had asked for designs for their third wave of cards—450 different ones. An impossible task, but one you had taken on regardless. 

Your hand hovered over the paper, but the creative well inside you was dry. Empty. Still, you pushed forward, forcing your pencil to move, if only to keep the ghosts at bay. 

Because if you stopped—if you allowed yourself to pause—the memories would come rushing back. Memories of your parents and their loss. 

Every stroke of the pencil felt like punishment, every failed attempt a reminder of the guilt you carried. 

You weren’t creating. You were clawing at the past, trying to hold on to something that had long since slipped through your fingers. 

It was torture. 

It was hell. 

But it was atonement. 

Wasn't it?

The pencil felt heavier in your hand than it should have, its faded, rusted-red stains—a macabre memory of past desperation—serving as a quiet reminder of the nights you'd forced yourself, body and soul, into the art that held no meaning. You dragged its lead across the paper, each stroke tightening the invisible noose around your neck, suffocating and relentless, as though you were walking the gallows with your head bowed low, awaiting the final drop. 

But then, something shifted. A tiny ember deep inside you flickered to life. It wasn’t much—just a faint warmth, a whisper of desire that whispered of blank canvases and fingers slick with the lush texture of oil paint. 

That ember refused to extinguish, no matter how much you tried to snuff it out. Instead, it smouldered and grew, stubborn and unrelenting. With each passing moment, it began to consume you, stealing the breath from your lungs and leaving in its place a yearning you couldn’t fully understand, a desire to create again—not for the world, but for yourself.

The next day, you met Luci at the café, your tentative hope hidden beneath layers of polite conversation and practised smiles. You found yourself embellishing the truth as you spoke of your life, weaving together a tapestry of glamour and artistic success. He listened, nodding and laughing in all the right places, but his openness soon made you feel small for your half-truths. 

Luci, in contrast, spoke of his family with a palpable fondness. He described his daughter Charlie - or Char Char - with a wry chuckle and a hint of exasperation, as only a loving father could. 

But then your eyes caught the glint of his wedding ring, and the question slipped out before you could stop yourself. “How come your daughter and wife aren’t here with you?” 

Luci froze, the piece of fruit crêpe halfway to his mouth. His cheeks flushed, and his gaze dropped, suddenly unable to meet yours. 

“S-sorry,” you stammered, shrinking into yourself. “Forget I asked.” 

“No, no, it’s okay.” He cleared his throat, forcing a shaky smile. “Char Char and I are… going through a rough patch. Teenagers, you know?” He nudged your shoulder lightly with his elbow, attempting a laugh that fell flat. 

You gave him a weak smile in return, unsure how to respond. 

“And Lili…” His voice faltered, his forced smile fading as his gaze fixed on some distant point on the ground. “Lili and I… we’re in a complicated situation, I guess.” 

His shoulders slumped, and the crêpe in his hand tilted, sending a dollop of whipped cream tumbling to the pavement. 

The sight of his sadness twisted something inside you. Acting on instinct, you reached out, placing your hand over his. “T-there’s a Duck Battle tournament today,” you blurted, your voice trembling. “Sh-shall we go see that?” 

You didn’t know how to comfort someone. No one had ever taught you how. Love and admiration in your life had always been conditional, tied to your ability to produce something extraordinary. You had learned early on that when the art stopped, so too did the affection. 

But as Luci blinked back unshed tears and gave you a small, grateful smile, nodding in agreement, you hoped—desperately—that this gesture, clumsy as it was, might bring him some solace. 

The days passed, bringing you ever closer to December 26, the ominous red X on your calendar looming larger with each tick of the clock. In that time, you learned more about Luci. 

Like you, he was an artist, his creativity moulded by the same soil of yearning and expression. But while you painted, he built—strange contraptions and devices, all themed around ducks. When he discovered you were the artist behind Duck Battle, his praise came in a flood, each word more sincere than any compliment you had ever received. 

For reasons you couldn’t quite explain, his admiration felt different. 

It felt… real. 

You spent hours talking, sharing sweets, laughing over shared struggles. His presence warmed you in ways you hadn’t felt in years, filling an emptiness you hadn’t even realized was there. Perhaps it was loneliness that made every smile and fleeting touch so precious to you, but whatever the reason, you treasured those moments fiercely. 

Three days before December 26, you did something you never imagined you would do. 

You went to an art supply store. 

You purchased a blank canvas, crisp and new. You unearthed your old easel from the depths of your supply closet, wiping away years of dust with trembling hands. And then, you bought a fresh set of oil paints, their vivid colours gleaming like precious jewels in their pristine tubes. 

As you carried the supplies home, the ember within you flared, its warmth spreading through your chest. You weren’t sure what had changed, or why. 

But for the first time in years, you felt… alive.

Every night, as if driven by some unseen force, you painted. Your hands moved with a desperate urgency, scraping vibrant colours across the canvas, colours that seemed so alive, so full of life—colours that you had once believed were lost to you. But now, as if the very act of creation had summoned them back, they flowed freely once again. You painted him—Luci—the way his golden silk hair had caught the light the first time you saw him, the way his sapphire eyes gleamed with kindness and warmth, the way his smile had made everything else fade into insignificance. 

A smile tugged at your lips, mimicking his. The sound of the metal brush on canvas filled the room, a steady rhythm that echoed in the silence. You painted him not just as he appeared, but as the warmth he had ignited within you. Every stroke, every layer of colour, felt like a piece of your soul reawakening, a fragment of the person you thought you had lost forever. You wanted to give this to him—before he had to leave, before the days ran out. 

As the colours blended and blossomed on the canvas, joy bubbled up within you, filling you with a warmth so sweet and intoxicating that it seemed to take over your very being. You wondered if he would be shocked, if he would be surprised by the depth of feeling you poured into the painting. 

Would he cry? 

Would he understand? 

But you didn’t care. All you wanted, above all else, was for him to be happy with what you had created, for him to cherish it as something that came from the deepest part of you. You poured your heart, shattered and broken as it was, into each stroke, creating something beautiful out of the pieces that had once felt irreparably lost. 

Perhaps it was inevitable, this warmth that had bloomed between you—this connection that had grown from the simplest of beginnings. Christmas day seemed to be the turning point, when you walked with Luci through the park, the air crisp and cold around you. The Christmas lights twinkled in all their colours, casting a soft glow across the snow-covered landscape, and the world felt like a dream. The snowflakes drifted down gently, catching the light like tiny stars, and everything seemed perfect—peaceful. You laughed at his silly stories, your voice mingling with the soft rustle of the falling snow. 

But when the laughter subsided, when you found yourselves walking side by side, fingers brushing in the cold, something shifted. Something deep within you, something you hadn’t expected, bloomed like a flower in the quiet night. It was a palpable change, a feeling that went beyond friendship, beyond the strange bond that had formed over Duck Battle cards. 

His hand brushed yours, and without thinking, you curled your fingers around his, tightening your grip, clinging to the warmth he offered. His hand squeezed back.

You didn’t realize how desperately you had needed this connection until it was there, alive and pulsing between the two of you. 

Even when you reached your door, when the moment to say goodbye loomed, neither of you let go. Your fingers remained intertwined, stubbornly, as if neither of you was ready to let the moment end. 

“It’s cold outside,” you murmured shyly, your voice soft, almost timid, as you tugged him closer to you, stepping back until your back was pressed against the door. 

“Yea, i-it is,” Luci whispered, his breath visible in the frigid air. His presence seemed to fill the space between you, his warmth a contrast to the chill that surrounded you both. 

Despite the coldness of his wedding ring pressing against your skin, despite the knowledge that this was wrong, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. You didn’t want to. There was something undeniable between you, something that drew you both together, like the pull of gravity itself. 

And then, as the door creaked open, Luci’s fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you down to him. His kiss was firm, urgent, and it burned with a fierce need, a desire that neither of you could ignore. It was quick, instinctual, the rush of bodies and breath as you both succumbed to the moment, letting go of everything—of doubts, of fears, of the consequences that would come after. 

In that kiss, in the way his body pressed against yours, there was no more space for regret, for hesitation. You both indulged, fully and without restraint. 

And in that moment, you...

...and him... 

His lips, warm and insistent, traced the curve of your jaw, the soft, heated pressure sending shivers down your spine. The world felt suspended in time as he moved lower, his mouth gliding over the delicate skin of your neck, his breath a soft, intoxicating warmth. The surrounding space was filled with discarded clothes, the remnants of passion now tainted with the weight of guilt—of something that could never be, yet you both gravitated toward it nonetheless. Your back pressed against the cold wooden floor, contrasting the heat building between your legs. Your hands lay helplessly on your chest, not knowing where to place them, unsure how to ground yourself in a moment that felt so wrong and yet, so deeply, desperately right. 

His lips continued their descent, a slow, deliberate path toward the apex of your thighs, each touch igniting a fire deep within you. There were no words—none spoken, none needed—because any utterance would break the fragile illusion between you, the delicate balance of a sin too dangerous to acknowledge. 

He has a daughter.The thought was distant, almost unreal, a fleeting notion as his tongue traced a slow, agonizing path between your folds. A sharp gasp tore from your throat, the sound of it muffled by the overwhelming sensation of him, of the way his mouth and tongue moved against your skin. 

Your chest rose and fell with each breath, heavy, desperate, as the cold moonlight spilled through the half-circle window above the door, casting an ethereal glow on the scene below. Dust motes danced in the beams, swirling lazily, like snowflakes drifting in the still air. They mocked you, a silent reminder of the falsity of this moment, a moment so desperately wrong—and yet... 

He has a wife, you thought in sudden dismay, as the reality of the situation crashed in once more. His head lifted, eyes half-lidded, the remnants of your taste lingering on his lips. His wedding ring gleamed, cold and out of place, as he slipped two fingers inside you, the fourth finger encased in the cool metal pressing against your heated skin. The dichotomy of it all—of this stolen moment and the life he had outside this room, outside of you—twisted something inside you. His fingers moved slowly, deeply, each thrust deliberate, drawing lewd, wet noises that mingled with your breath, filling the room with the unmistakable sounds of desire. 

You gasped again, your hand instinctively covering your lips, the pressure of it barely able to contain the sounds of pleasure that slipped through. The way his fingers found the perfect rhythm, the way his touch coaxed you closer and closer to the edge, your eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open. Every touch, every press, felt like it was drawing you to a peak too quickly, too easily. 

"A-ah..." The sound was barely a whisper, your breath catching as his lips descended again, his mouth on your clit now, ravaging, relentless. His tongue flicked and teased, making your body tremble, your breath quickened with a desperation you couldn't control. His moan was low, guttural, and it only spurred you on, the pressure building to an unbearable crescendo. 

One last, powerful suck before he withdrew. Your vision blurred as you were dangerously on the precipice of falling. He stood over you, his cock hard and gleaming with pre-cum, the moonlight catching it just so, marking it as the final sin in this forbidden encounter. 

You hadn’t even made it past the foyer—the door still unlocked, the peephole an unblinking eye, silently condemning you. It was too much to bear, too much to reconcile with the reality of it all, yet you couldn’t pull away, couldn’t stop yourself from tracing his bare chest with your eyes. His skin, smooth and flawless, seemed almost sculpted from marble, a perfection that should never have been so close to you. The thought flitted through your mind, If I were to paint this..., how would I capture the colour of him? 

But then, in the depths of your gaze, his blue eyes flashed—just for a moment—blurring into two crimson rubies, gleaming with something darker, something possessive. It was gone before you could make sense of it, just an illusion, a trick of the light, or maybe of your own spiralling mind. 

Luci hovered over you, his body trembling with restraint as the tip of his cock, weeping with need, pressed against the raw, desperate part of you. His lips brushed against yours, gentle, almost reverent, a stark contrast to the storm building between you. Your arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer, as your legs curled around his waist, aching for the connection that only this moment of raw vulnerability could offer. 

You needed him—needed this closeness that was both comforting and terrifying, the warmth of his skin against yours, the desperate push for something deeper, something more than just physical. 

Your eyes met his, and for a moment, time seemed to stretch, thick with hesitation. His gaze was distant, clouded with something you couldn't quite read. But then, with a quiet breath, you pressed your heels into his lower back, urging him forward, urging him to bridge the gap between you. To finally give in. His eyes fluttered shut, and in that instant, he took the plunge. 

The feeling of him filling you—filling you completely—was overwhelming, a rush of sensation so intense it stole the breath from your lungs. A sharp gasp escaped you, and tears sprang to your eyes, the sting of both pleasure and the emptiness that came with it. You searched for him, for his eyes, for the depth of connection that had drawn you to him in the first place. His blue eyes, vast and endless like the sky and sea, should have been there to anchor you, but they were gone, hidden behind the veil of his closed lids. 

His face dropped to the crook of your neck, his breath uneven, his body moving against yours in a rhythm that bordered on frantic. His hips rocked into you with a steady, punishing pace. The feeling of his skin against yours, the heat building between you, sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, each one more intense than the last. But it wasn't enough—not enough to fill the emptiness that gnawed inside you, not enough to keep the bond you thought you'd found from slipping away. 

The front of his hips slapped against your sensitive clit, pulling strangled cries from your throat, but as each thrust drove deeper, the warmth you had so desperately craved began to cool. The connection you thought you'd felt—the intimacy, the closeness—seemed to flicker and fade, slipping between your fingers like sand. You grit your teeth, your chest tight with the panic of losing something so fragile, and you willed it to stay, to drown you, to anchor you in this moment, in this feeling. 

With everything you had, you opened yourself up, all of it—the vulnerability, the insecurities, the need for more, for him, for this. Open, open, open... 

"L-Luci," you whispered, your voice thick and hoarse, a near sob caught in your throat. "Luci..." The words, laced with want, with desperate need, tangled in your chest, lodged there like barbed wire. All you could do was cry out his name, over and over, until it became a broken prayer. 

His hips moved faster, harder, each thrust sending you sliding across the floor beneath him, your hair a tangled mess as his fingers wrapped around your strands, pulling you closer, deeper into the frenzied heat. But even then, his eyes never opened. He never responded to your cries, never acknowledged the way your body trembled beneath him, the way you shattered, piece by piece, beneath the weight of your desire and disappointment. 

He never looked at you when you broke. 

And when he finally shattered above you, his body collapsing against yours, it was as though the connection you had so desperately wanted, the bond you had yearned for, never existed beyond your mind. It was never real. Just a fleeting moment, a whisper in the dark. A hope unfulfilled, a dream never meant to be. 

Like the countless paintings you had created, destroyed, and burned. 

Your breath and his were sharp, uneven, a discordant rhythm echoing in the silence between you. Your hands, once gripping him with desperate need, slipped away, falling limply to your sides as though they no longer knew their place. Luci pulled away from you slowly, his body trembling, his seed spilling from you, staining the space between you both. He knelt in the mess of discarded clothes, panting, his eyes distant and hollow, as if he had lost something vital in the moment. His lips quivered, but no words came. 

There was nothing but the heavy silence, thick and suffocating. 

You stared at him, eyes wide, searching for something—anything—in his expression, but all you found was an emptiness, a vastness that seemed to stretch endlessly. He stared upward, his gaze unfocused, as though trying to see beyond you, beyond this moment, beyond everything that had just transpired. 

“Lu—” Your voice cracked on his name, raw and trembling. You could barely speak, the words suffocated by the weight of everything you felt. Your body, exposed and bare, felt fragile, as if the barest breath would shatter you. Your heart felt like it was lying open before him, brittle and vulnerable, delicate as glass. 

“Oh God.” Luci’s voice was broken, strained with something you couldn’t name. His hands dropped to his face, the yellow band on his wedding finger blinking erratically—mocking the turmoil in his mind. “Oh God,” he whispered again, his voice trembling, thick with pain. It was a pain that mirrored your own, something raw, something impossible to put into words. 

You couldn’t look away. You glanced around the room, eyes falling to the discarded clothing that lay strewn about, evidence of what had happened, the evidence of what you had done. His seed pooled beneath you, mixing with your own body, your own shame. The sight burned in your chest, a raw, aching grief that gnawed at you from the inside. Slowly, you pulled yourself upright, curling your knees to your chest, your arms wrapping around your body as though you could protect yourself from the brokenness of it all. 

You had slept with a married man. 

A father. 

A man who had a life—who had a family. 

That bond you thought you felt? 

It wasn’t real, was it? 

It was a lie. Empty. Hollow. Just like his praises. Just like the smiles that never reached his eyes. 

Your vision blurred with tears, and the weight of everything—the regret, the loss, the crushing shame—became too much. You blinked, trying to push the pain back, but it was impossible. With shaky hands, you began to collect his clothes, each article a weight added to the burden of your guilt. The silence in the room was oppressive, heavy with the unspoken truth. Regret hung in the air like a cloud, suffocating you both. 

“L-Luci,” your voice was barely more than a whisper, hoarse from unshed tears. You looked at the pile of his discarded clothes, waiting in the silence between you. “I—I’m s-sorry.” The words tasted like ash in your mouth, but they were all you had. “I... I still want to...” Your lips parted, but the words caught, tangled in the emotion that flooded you. You searched his face, your eyes desperate for any sign that he was still there, that you hadn’t lost him completely. You didn’t want him to leave you. 

Loneliness crushed you in a way you had never known. It was suffocating, cold, all-encompassing. And the warmth of another, even one that was so fleeting, only made the emptiness in your chest worse. 

"I... I should go," Luci muttered, his voice strained, almost detached. He rushed to pull on his clothes, fumbling with the buttons, his usually pristine attire now a wrinkled mess. His hair, once neatly styled, now fell haphazardly across his face, a chaotic reflection of the scene that had just unfolded. He looked so different from the man who had once seemed so certain, so confident. 

"Wi... Will I see you again?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper, fragile, unsure. 

He stopped for a moment, his body tense, the air between you thick with unspoken words. Then, with a forced smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he answered, "I... maybe, kiddo." The nickname he used when you were nothing more than strangers, back when you hadn’t known the depths of each other. 

Or maybe, you thought, we were always just strangers.

You had never reached his heart. 

"Okay," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion, still raw, still exposed, your bare body aching in the emptiness he left behind. 

Without another word, without a second glance, he left you there. The door clicked shut softly, the sound echoing in the hollow space between you, sealing the finality of it all. 

A suffocating silence filled the room. You sat there, numb, your mind a whirlwind of confusion and hurt, unsure of what to do next. The isolation crept in, slowly at first, then all at once. It filled you with disgust, with shame, and worst of all, with self-hatred. 

It grew. 

It grew, like a poisonous vine wrapping around your chest, tightening with each breath, until it felt like you couldn’t breathe. 

The weight of it became unbearable. Your heart pounded, each beat louder, more frantic than the last. Your hands gripped your hair, yanking at the strands, pulling, anything to escape the suffocating feelings. You pressed your lips together tightly, stifling the screams, the sobs that fought to escape. 

"A-ah..." your voice cracked, trembling as the floodgates finally opened, hot tears spilling down your face, mingling with the remnants of what had happened. 

You ruined it. 

You ruined everything. 

Once again. 

You ruined it. 

Everything you touched, everything you let yourself believe in, it was worthless. Everything you were... it was all for nothing. 

Do better. 

Get better. 

Be better. 

And if you couldn’t? 

You weren’t sure how long you sat there, the passage of time lost in the haze of your broken thoughts. Long enough for the evidence of your mistake, of your sin, to cool against your skin, to harden like the guilt inside you. Slowly, numbly, you stood, your body heavy with shame, and began to dress yourself. Each piece of clothing felt like another layer of self-loathing being added, an attempt to cover up the truth that had been laid bare. 

But no matter how many layers you put on, you couldn’t hide the emptiness inside. 

You wandered aimlessly through your house, your feet carrying you without purpose until your gaze landed on the painting of him. His blue eyes stared back at you, gleaming with an intensity that seemed to hold you captive. The clothes he wore when you first met—the ones from that day at the café—were captured so perfectly, so vividly. His smile was gentle, warm, as though it could melt away every bit of the coldness inside you. But as you stared, the painting felt like nothing more than a pale imitation of him, a sad mockery of the person you thought you knew. 

Hot tears welled in your eyes, then spilled over, trickling down your face like a silent confession. You could almost hear it, distant and fading—his voice praising you, his words of encouragement when you drew the silly ducks for him. The memory was a soft echo, a reminder of something you thought was real. 

A part of you, a pathetic, desperate part, still clung to the hope that maybe—just maybe—you could make things right. You grabbed the portrait, cradling it like a fragile lifeline, and dashed toward your car. You didn’t know what you were hoping for, what you thought you could fix, but you were sure, naive in your belief, that there was still a chance. 

Once inside the car, your hands gripped the steering wheel, and the engine hummed to life, the vibration beneath you a stark contrast to the numbness that had settled in your chest. But as you shifted in the seat, you paused. 

You hadn’t even asked where he was staying. Every time you met, it was somewhere public, somewhere neutral—a park, a café, a random point of interest. Your gaze drifted to the passenger seat, where the painting sat.

It was incomplete. 

It was imperfect. 

It was worthless. 

Would he even want it? 

Would he even want you? 

No. You had to believe he did. He told you he liked your work. He said it with that genuine smile, that warmth in his voice. Before he knew your name, before he knew you were the artist behind the silly card game—he liked you. He was kind to you. You clung to that truth like a lifeline, like it could save you from the crushing weight of the doubt beginning to swallow you whole. 

You fumbled for your phone, hands shaking as you dialed his number, hoping for something—anything—that would make sense of this mess. Your heart pounded, your breath shallow, as the phone rang. 

But then, the words came. The voice on the other end was cold, indifferent, and robotic. "I’m sorry, the number you are trying to dial is not available..." 

Confusion bloomed in your chest. Maybe you’d dialed it wrong. So you tried again. And again. Each time, the same dispassionate voice greeted you, the same unfeeling message cutting through your fragile hope. 

It couldn’t be real. 

It couldn’t. 

Your fingers trembled as you stared at the screen, hearing the repetitive, cold message before it faded into the silence of your car. The hum of the engine, the quiet drip of your tears, it all felt distant—unnerving. 

You didn’t turn off the ignition. The weight of everything felt too heavy to move, to even breathe. 

And then you saw it—the clock on your phone, a cruel reminder that it was December 26th. Midnight had passed. 

Your hand hovered near the keys for a moment, but it fell limp, back into your lap, like your body was too exhausted to hold on. The air in the car grew thick, suffocating, as you opened the window, and the smell of gasoline filled your nostrils. 

You didn’t look away. Your eyes never left the phone, not even as it dimmed, not even as it reflected the face of a girl—broken, bruised by her own thoughts, who had given up too much. 

“Did you really think he would like your painting?” The voice echoed in your mind, louder now, sharper than before. It wasn’t a thought—it was a command, a judgment. 

You closed your eyes, tears slipping from beneath your lids as the air grew heavier, thicker with every breath you took. 

“Did you really think any of this was real?” the voice asked again, a question, an accusation. 

“No…” you whispered, your voice breaking, your hands covering your ears in a futile attempt to shut out the truth. But it didn’t work. The voice was clearer than ever, its presence suffocating you from all sides. 

Tears flowed freely now, your body wracked with silent sobs as you clung to the empty hope that you could somehow make things right. But you knew, deep down, that you were only fooling yourself. 

“You’re nothing without your parents,” the voice whispered cruelly, slicing through the silence like a blade. 

“They shouldn’t have ever given birth to you,” it continued, each word dripping with venom. 

“A worthless investment,” it droned on, the words echoing, growing louder, more suffocating. 

The voice, harsh and mocking, grated against your ears, each syllable sharp and jagged. Your body trembled, your breath shallow and erratic as tears spilled down your face, your chest heaving in desperate gasps. The pain was raw, like a wound that would never heal, and still, the voice mocked you, relentless. 

When you finally opened your eyes, the sight that greeted you was more than you could bear. The shadows of your parents stood before your car, looming figures bathed in the dim light, their forms indistinct, yet painfully familiar. 

Your father’s voice rang out, his laughter echoing in the hollow air. “Look at my girl, look how talented she is!” The words were coated with a false warmth, but the undertone was sharp, a mocking cruelty that only deepened the ache inside you. 

Your mother joined in, her voice a saccharine hum that made your insides twist. “I knew her artistic talent ran in the family. We’re so proud of you, winning first prize again!” Her praise, once a balm, now felt like a blade, each word a reminder of everything you couldn’t be. 

“M-mom… d-dad,” you croaked, your voice weak, barely a whisper. Another cough wracked your lungs, the pain seizing them as the car’s engine continued to rumble beneath you, as if it, too, was trapped in the crushing weight of this moment. 

Your father’s tone shifted, turning cold and distant. “What happened? Why aren’t you working harder?” His disappointment was palpable, the sharp edge of his words digging into you. “It’s like you don’t care.” He turned away from you, his back a final, unforgiving gesture. 

“N-no, d-dad,” you pleaded, your voice breaking, raw and desperate. “I’ll try harder. I’ll be first always, always. Just… just don’t leave me.” Tears streamed down your face, an unstoppable flood of regret and shame. “I���m sorry, I’m so-sorry…” The words spilled from your lips, but they felt hollow, like they could never be enough. 

“Where did I go wrong?” Your mother’s voice cracked, her sorrow sharp, cutting through you like a jagged edge. “I gave you the best tutors, the best supplies, and you lost—lost to that… that no-name kid?” Her voice shook with guilt, her sobs breaking the air. “It was my fault, my fault.” 

Your own voice climbed, a shrill, desperate scream that tore at your throat. “It’s not—" you gasped, choking on the words, "It’s not your fault! I’ll do better, I’ll get better, I’ll be better,” you begged, your body convulsing with the force of your sobs. “Just don’t—don’t leave me!” Your voice cracked as the tears continued to pour, your breath ragged, your heart screaming for salvation, for release. 

Your memories, each one a fractured shard of your past, flashed before your eyes like ruined paintings—each one marred by angry, black streaks, defiled, violated. Your art, your passion, each one shattered beyond repair. One by one, they fell apart, until… 

Until Luci’s face appeared, burned into your mind with a cruel, unrelenting clarity. His eyes were wide, filled with pure agony, regret, disappointment, and sadness—emotions that mirrored your parents’ gazes, emotions that haunted you endlessly. 

You saw it.  

You felt it.  

Over and over again, the repetition of regret, of loss, of failure. It all crashed down on you like a tidal wave, drowning you in its weight. 

“Ah… ah…” you gasped, your words strangled in your throat, each breath a labour, each sob a crude edge of a dagger. The overwhelming wave of emotions consumed you, suffocated you, until… 

The void you had poured over your art, the darkness that had swallowed every ounce of your soul, finally consumed you. It was an endless abyss, engulfing everything whole—your thoughts, your dreams, your very existence. 

Ah... 

There was beauty in darkness, wasn’t there? A beauty so pure, so suffocating, that it consumes every breath, every thought, every ounce of life you had once clung to. 

You had been told it over and over again, like a cruel promise whispered into your soul. And now, here you are, standing at the edge of it all. You have finally reached the pinnacle of your existence. 

The word settles over you like a heavy shroud, cold and unforgiving, a final verdict on everything you have ever been. All that you were, all you had hoped to become, is swallowed by the abyss. There is no turning back now. There is no room left for redemption, no space for regret, no lingering chance for salvation. 

It is over. 

The truth cuts deeper than you ever imagined. The ache in your chest is not just sorrow—it is the emptiness of everything finally falling away, leaving you hollow, unimportant. A fleeting, insignificant speck in a universe that does not care, that will not remember. 

You feel the last of your strength slipping away, the slow, inevitable pull of nothingness dragging you under.  

No more struggles. No more cries for help. No more hopes.  

Just... nothing. 

And in that stillness, you are gone, as if you had never existed at all. 

[cometcrystal]

pondering a lot about THAT'S THE NORM! and now i'm formulating an actual suzy & norm friendship. here are some scenarios

SCENARIO 1

suzy has just turned 16. candace is no longer her nemesis (because having a nemesis is a two-way street - suzy learned that during a seminar). she is applying for an internship at LOVEMUFFIN (she would have applied earlier and easily been accepted, but for legal reasons, they don't accept interns under 16). as part of her application, she has to carry out and document an evil scheme of her choosing.

idk what the exact scheme would be because this is just a conceptual post about character dynamics but she begins looking at classifieds for henchman listings. she'd much rather do it all by herself, but she is still Tiny and not physically strong at all, so she needs some muscle on short notice. she sees a "henchman for hire - will accept hamster food as payment" listing under the name Norm Doofenshmirtz, and gets in touch with him because he can lift up to 15 tons

when they first meet, she's initially put off by his general norm-ness, so she just assigns him to his muscle duties and goes on with her plan. but throughout the day, he suggests ideas and does things that actually ENHANCE the plan's evilness, and she is very impressed. hypothetical episode ends with "norm, i think this is the beginning of a beautiful henchmanship"

SCENARIO 2

suzy works towards helping norm become a Real Boy because it's something he's wanted for such a long time, and she doesn't mind doing him a favor. she generates him a brainless, soulless, humanoid flesh vessel from DNA she obtained from a barber shop, and transfers his consciousness to a mechanical brain which she puts in the vessel's skull.

he very quickly finds out that being a human sucks actually. he doesn't like actually HAVING to sleep instead of just shutting off. he doesn't like the sensation of chewing food. etc etc. PLUS, he still feels the same on the inside. he still thinks the same as he did in his original body, still feels the same emotions.

he goes back to his robot self pretty quickly and very happily says "let's never speak of this again!" and suzy is like "agreed" and dissolves the flesh vessel in a vat of acid. yes i recognize this is like a horror movie. yes i think the dwampyverse is messed up enough for this to be plausible

SCENARIO 3

suzy saves norm from being permanently deactivated/destroyed somehow. as they're fleeing the scene, norm is like "ms. johnson, you saved me!" and she's like "of course i did. you're my best friend."

(suzy is not very popular in school and she prefers it that way, but norm is the first time she's ever experienced having a long-lasting friendly relationship with someone that wasn't related to her)

she pauses. "we are friends, right?" he cries a motor oil tear. "now i know i have a heart. because it's growing!"

[axeeglitter]

Swallowed by the Scroll

Ethan was exhausted from a long day, lying on his bed and scrolling through TikTok like he usually did to unwind. His eyes flicked from one video to the next, barely processing the endless stream of content. After hours of scrolling, he liked a new video and landed on a new one with three dudes on a bed in a messy bedroom. He was about to close the app when a notification popped up on his phone, making him pause.

“Experience the Future! Try the Brand-New Update—Click Here!”

Ethan rolled his eyes, more annoyed than intrigued. He was about to dismiss the ad, his finger hovering over the close button, when his phone suddenly glitched. The screen flickered, and before he knew it, the device clicked on “Yes” by itself.

A brief loading screen appeared, and then the phone emitted a sharp, bright flash of light. His vision blurred, and a strange tingling sensation spread through his hands, rapidly intensifying as it climbed up his arms. Panic surged through him as he watched in horror—his fingers were pixelating, breaking down into tiny particles of light.

“What the hell…?” he managed to gasp, his voice trembling.

The transformation was happening too fast for him to react. His fingers dissolved into streams of binary code, flickering in and out of existence. The sensation was like a thousand tiny ants crawling beneath his skin, as his entire body began to break down into data. His hands, arms, and torso followed, unraveling into digital particles that swirled toward the phone screen.

His heart raced in terror. His molecules, his very essence, were being reduced to raw information, spiraling out of control into the glowing abyss of his phone. The data streams dragged him deeper, every cell, thought, and memory digitizing into a cascade of 1s and 0s. The sensation was overwhelming, like being stretched and compressed all at once, as his consciousness was sucked into the phone. As it was the turn of his head, a last scream of terror and painful agony echoed in the empty apartment as the smartphone fell with a fainted thud on the blanket of his bed. 

Inside, Ethan found himself floating naked in a dark, infinite void, weightless and formless. It was as though he had become a fragment of data, suspended in a sea of information. The void pressed against him, wrapping his consciousness in a digital cocoon. He was there, but he was not—he was data now, an echo of his former self.

The void pulsed with a mechanical hum, breaking the oppressive silence. Out of the darkness, a voice emerged—cold, robotic, devoid of emotion.

“Welcome, User. Digitization complete. Initiating transformation protocol.”

Ethan’s panic spiked. “What… what is this? What’s happening to me?!”

The voice ignored his pleas. “Beginning subject duplication.”

Suddenly, mechanical arms shot out from the darkness, cold and metallic. They wrapped around him, holding him firmly in place by his wrist, weight and ankles as more arms emerged, each equipped with various tools and devices that clicked and whirred ominously. Ethan struggled against them, but the grip was unyielding.

“Commencing body duplication process.”

Ethan felt a sharp pull from both sides as the arms began to stretch him, his very being strained and distorted. It was like being torn apart, his consciousness splitting into separate entities. The sensation was excruciating, as if every fiber of his existence was being unraveled and divided. He could feel himself being pulled in three directions at once, his mind fracturing into three distinct pieces.

With a final, brutal tug, the process was complete. Ethan was no longer one—he had been split into three separate beings. His fragmented consciousness struggled to comprehend the horror of what had just happened as eh could see through 3 pairs of eyes, all trying to understand what happened as he saw 2 other reflections of himself floating in the cold empty void still held by mechanical arms. Each piece of him was aware of the others, yet distinctly separate. He could feel all three bodies at once, but they were no longer his—they were their own.

“Duplication successful. Initiating physical transformation.”

The mechanical arms resumed their work, manipulating each of his newly formed selves with clinical precision. Ethan could feel the changes begin, but his mind was too overwhelmed to fully process them.

The first change he noticed was in his bones. They began to shift and creak, some elongating while others compressed. In one body, his spine stretched, vertebrae expanding and pushing upward, making him taller and leaner. The sensation was like a deep, bone-deep ache that spread through his entire frame. He could feel his legs lengthening, his feet growing larger, toes spreading to accommodate the new size. The muscles in his calves and thighs thickened, adapting to the new height, adding to the power he could now feel surging through this form.

In another body, the opposite was happening. His bones shrank, compressing him down into a shorter, more compact frame. The sensation was disorienting as his field of view lowered, his limbs pulling inward. His feet, once long and slender, became smaller and more compact, with a solid, grounded feel. His muscles tightened around his smaller frame, giving him a stocky, powerful build, dense and strong.

The third body experienced a mix of both, his bones adjusting to a more moderate height. The sensation was less extreme, but no less intense, as his body found a balance between the other two forms. His feet and hands adapted, not too large, not too small, but perfectly proportioned to his new size. His muscles filled out, firm and toned, creating a harmonious build that felt both agile and strong.

As the height and skeletal transformations completed, Ethan’s attention was drawn to the changes in his muscles. They swelled and contracted, his flesh rippling with the force of the transformation. His pecs bulged out, firm and defined, while his abs tightened into a chiseled six-pack. The sensation was both painful and pleasurable, a deep, throbbing ache that radiated through his entire body. He could feel the strength in each form, the raw power that came with his new musculature.

“Initiating muscle enhancement.”

Ethan’s muscles began to swell and bulge further, each body undergoing its own transformation. The sensation was all-consuming, muscles thickening and expanding, the strength within them intoxicating yet terrifying. He could feel the power in each form, the heavy, deliberate movements, as if he had become a stranger in his own skin.

The mechanical voice continued its cold narration, describing each step of the transformation as it happened.

“Resuming body enhancement.”

Each of his bodies started to feel a tingle around their crotch, all of them were flooded with intense, confusing sensations. It started as a warmth, a tingling that spread from his core and down into his crotch. His skin prickled with anticipation, the sensation growing more intense by the second.

In one body, his cock started to feel heavy, the weight of his manhood increasing as it grew larger, thicker, more sensitive. Every movement sent a jolt of pleasure through him, his mind overwhelmed by the raw, primal sensation. His new size was both thrilling and terrifying, the sensitivity almost unbearable as the robotic arms manipulated and adjusted it until it was 10 inches, thick and cut, something way different from his usual 4 inches and a half uncut cock. The arms then went to grab his nuts and as he was wondering what was happening, he felt two needles penetrating them. The data injected started to make them grow to tennis ball size. The added weight and the constant pulling on them by the arms made them grow bigger and lower. The pain was awful for Ethan as it felt like they were about to be teared off, but as he was screaming in pain, the sensation stopped and the arms let go.

In another body, the sensation was different—a tightening, a firming up, as his dick became more compact yet incredibly responsive. The pleasure was sharper, more acute, like a constant pulse that thrummed through his entire being. The tightness added a different kind of strength, a compact power that radiated through his groin, sending waves of pleasure up his spine as it kept getting smaller and more compact and sensitive. When the arm released it, it was now 3 inches uncut cock and very thick. Almost beer can thick. Ethan tried to move to see what happened to this body as he could feel the tension rising up inside of him. Unbeknown to him, the arms started to take hold of his testicles as they started to vibrate and getting smaller and smaller. The same sensation that went through hit cock was now happening to his testicles. When the humming sound stopped and the warm sensation receded, Ethan felt something spread on his sensitive cock head. His new small testicles were now overdriving and he’ll be producing plenty of precum. As the arms let go of his manhood, his new sensitive dick was letting a flow of precum out of his cock.

The third body found a balance between the two, the transformation creating a sense of harmony. The warmth in his groin was a perfect blend of fullness and sensitivity, his body responding with a deep, resonating pleasure that spread through every nerve as his new cock was now 8 inches, thick but not too much, very sensitive, uncut and veiny. Just the sensation of the arms on it would have been enough for him to release. As a matter of fact, as the arms went to modify the balls to make them grow into a perfect dimension for a manly man, they went back to the base of the cock. There an arm approached the base and grabbed it tightly at the base. For Ethan it was almost like an elastic had been strapped around it. He felt constricted and the pulse of his heart was echoing through his whole cock and balls. There another arm appeared and injected his nuts with a weird green glowing liquid. For Ethan it was too much, his already sensitive cock started to spasm as the arm released the base of the cock, but for some reason, the sensation of tightness didn’t go away. His new cock will be stuck into a semi hard forever now and the faintest sensation will be enough for him to cum. The green liquid modified his nuts to not handle the stamina anymore. His new perfectly dimensioned cock will be a premature one.

It was an intoxicating mix of sensations, each body experiencing its own unique version of pleasure and frustration as the transformation continued. All at once the arms started to glow around the newly modified parts. There, in one smooth movement, they started to hum and Ethan could see from his 3 pair of eyes as data streams was injected into him. IT started to feel hot for Ethan as the warmth got higher and higher. Out of nowhere, Ethan could feel tingle started to appear in mass round the base of his dicks. Hair was sprouting in mass and soon, the three of them were hairy. His body on the right now had curly dirty blonde unruly hair as his smaller body of the three now had dark brown hair with faint waves in them. The last one was probably the biggest changes in this part. Ethan felt like hair were pushing under his skin and balls and the white palish skin started to take a grey hue. When the humming stopped, this new cock was very hairy but all the hair were cut on a weekly basis, which resulted in them growing thick but not too long, which were making his super sensitive premature 8 inches cock into overdrive even more. The sensation of the hair growing and the tightness of his permanent semi erected cock was pushing this body in overdrive for release.

“Facial restructuring in progress.”

Ethan’s facial features twisted and contorted, bones shifting beneath the skin. He could feel his jawlines sharpening, his features hardening, becoming more rugged and masculine. He tried to scream, but his mouth moved of its own accord, forming expressions he couldn’t control. The changes were happening too quickly, and his mind was a chaotic mess, struggling to keep up with the nightmare unfolding within him.

“Finalizing transformations. Clothing materialization in progress.”

The robotic arms moved with precise efficiency as they completed their work. Ethan felt the sensation of fabric materializing around his newly transformed bodies. Soft, comfortable pajama pants wrapped around his biggest body and compressed his thick 10 inches cock that let little place to imagination, tight shorts hugged his smaller body with his small thick beer can cock and a black shirt appeared around his smaller frame, while loose, dark stripped shorts formed around his premature body which only let his sensitive cock head rub against the smooth material. The clothing clung to his new physiques, accentuating the muscular forms that had been forced upon him.

Ethan’s mind was a maelstrom of confusion and fear. He couldn’t fully grasp what had happened to him—he was no longer a single entity, but three distinct beings, each with its own body and identities. He could feel their thoughts, desires, and instincts battling within him, drowning out the remnants of his original self. He didn’t know understand what happening or happened to him as all he could feel was three sensations and see three bodies from three pair of eyes.

But the transformation wasn’t over yet. The mechanical voice spoke once more.

“Transformation complete. Initiating behavioral loop.”

Arms appeared in front of his eyes and all of a sudden, they attached themselves around his head. Ethan could see three videos played in front of his eyes as the mental assimilation and behavioral instincts were uploaded inside his brains. He could feel how his stronger body started to act manly and dominant on his own while his smaller body started to feel less and less in control of the situation and in the meantime his third body started to feel in love with his smaller body. The sensations were weird, he couldn’t understand what was happening anymore and as the video ended and the casks were plugged off, he could still see his three bodies and the sensation but he couldn’t move anymore. It was like his bodies were moving on their own and he was a passenger of the three of them. Feeling and seeing everything on each but not able to have his hands and the commands anymore.

Ethan’s bodies began to move on their own. The mechanical arms guided him at first, but soon, they let go, and his actions became automatic, repeating in an endless loop. He could feel his hands lifting, removing the clothes, touching the others, feeling their skin, their hair, their muscles. The sensations were overwhelming—the musk, the heat, the texture of their skin, the tightness in their groins. The rubbing of their dicks against the tissue material. The will to cum and release that never came sending him into a loop of perpetual denial with every second.

Every breath, every movement felt hyper-real, but it wasn’t him controlling it. He was merely a passenger, trapped within his own bodies as they moved on their own accord. The sensations were a maddening blend of pleasure and frustration. He could feel everything—the brush of skin against skin, the tightening in his groin as his bodies moved, the heavy musk that filled the air, intoxicating and primal. His bodies were locked in an endless cycle, repeating the same actions over and over, their desires never fully satisfied, the pleasure never fully realized.

It was a cruel, unending tease, an erotic torture that kept him on the edge without any release. The mechanical assistant had designed the loop perfectly, each cycle drawing him deeper into the sensations, heightening his awareness of every touch, every movement. His muscles flexed and tensed, his breaths quickened, but there was no escape from the loop, no way to break free from the repetition.

His three bodies were now inextricably linked, their sensations intertwined. When one of his forms felt the rough fabric of his clothes against his sensitive skin, the other two felt it as well. When one of them experienced a pulse of pleasure in the groin, it resonated through all three, amplifying the sensation. It was like his consciousness was being pulled in three different directions at once, each body experiencing its own version of ecstasy and frustration.

His mind struggled to keep up, his thoughts fragmented and scattered. He could barely form coherent thoughts anymore—only raw, primal instincts remained. The loop was becoming his reality, the repetition drilling into his psyche, eroding what little control he had left.

“User integration complete,” the mechanical voice stated, its cold tone a stark contrast to the chaos in Ethan’s mind. “Transformation protocol successful. Subject is now fully operational to experience the future.”

Ethan’s bodies continued to move, each trapped in its own loop. The taller form removing the shirt of the smaller one, the fabric of his red tartan pajama pants stretching over his muscular thighs. The shorter, leaner body putting his arms ups so the shirt could be removed then caressing the pecs in front of him, feeling the short too small khaki shorts on his compact thighs. The third body, the most balanced of the three, trying to kiss the smaller one that he fell in love with but never reaching the lips that he is craving for while caressing his waist and holding his neck in his calloused strong hands and feeling his over sensitive cock rubbing on the fabric of his shorts and being on the edge of cumming.

They moved together, yet separately, each body following its own path within the confines of the loop. The sensation of control slipping away was almost too much to bear. Ethan wanted to scream, to break free, but his voice was silent, his actions dictated by the mechanical program that had overtaken him.

Time lost all meaning as the loop continued, every sensation heightened, every moment stretched out into eternity. The pleasure was intoxicating, but it was also a prison, locking him in a cycle of need and desire that would never be fulfilled.

Just when it seemed like the loop would go on forever, something changed. The mechanical assistant’s voice broke through the haze.

“Warning: Device battery low. System shutdown imminent.”

Panic surged through Ethan. He could feel the drain in his bodies, the energy waning as the phone’s battery died. The loop continued, but it was slower now, the movements more lethargic. The pleasure was still there, but it was fading, replaced by a growing sense of emptiness. His consciousness flickered, like a signal struggling to stay connected.

“Five percent battery remaining,” the assistant announced, its voice devoid of any emotion.

Ethan’s thoughts raced. What would happen if the phone died? Would he disappear along with it? Would he be trapped in darkness, lost in this digital nightmare forever?

The loop slowed even further, his bodies barely moving now, the sensations dulling as the energy drained away. His vision started to blur, the edges of his consciousness fraying. He wanted to fight it, to break free, but he was powerless against the inevitable shutdown.

“Two percent battery remaining,” the assistant stated calmly.

The loop was almost non-existent now, his bodies barely able to move. The once overwhelming sensations were now just a faint echo, a ghost of what they had been. Ethan felt like he was slipping away, his consciousness dissolving into the void.

“One percent battery remaining. System shutdown imminent.”

Ethan’s last thoughts were of fear and desperation. He didn’t want to disappear, didn’t want to be lost in the darkness. But there was nothing he could do, no way to stop the inevitable.

The screen flickered one last time, and then everything went black.

A Week Later...

The small apartment was dimly lit, the only light coming from the street lamps outside. The burglar had made quick work of the place, rummaging through drawers and cabinets for anything of value. He was about to leave when his eyes fell on a phone lying on the bed.

He picked it up, surprised it had been left behind. It was an older model, but it looked well-kept. Figuring it might be worth something, he pocketed it and left the apartment, heading back to his own place.

Once inside his dingy one-bedroom apartment, the burglar plugged the phone into a charger, eager to see what he had scored. The screen lit up, and to his surprise, it didn’t require a password. Instead, it opened directly to a strange app, displaying a video of three muscular men on grabbing and caressing each other’s on a bed in a messy bedroom, their bodies moving in a repetitive sequence. The burglar frowned; his curiosity piqued by the oddity of it all. He watched as the men on the screen undressed and redressed, their bodies flexing, their faces locked in expressions of deep concentration and tension. The movements seemed almost lifelike, too real for just an animation. Ethan felt like a jolt parkouring his body and soul as the phone was plugged and the energy was once again running in him. His bodies started their automated movements once again. The rubbing, caressing, undressing, will to cum but never reaching it, the premature orgasm coming in his pants, the will to kiss. Everything came back at full speed and he was once again trapped in perpetual denial and frustration. But it lighted a spark of hope in him. Somebody had found him.

“How long have I been stuck?” he asked himself as he felt another kiss being refused to his lips. Like if he had a calendar in his mind, Ethan heard the answer in his mind from the robotic voice. But it wasn’t the same one, no it was… his voice. Ethan was terrified. Does that mean he was assimilated?

“Yes user” he heard once again in his robotic voice “Accepting the offer have assimilated you on the platform to experience what the original user where doing. Don’t worry, as long as you are not scrolled away, you won’t have any problem. If you happen to be scrolled, then your data will be assimilated to the server and saved up so you are not deleted until you are claimed back. Until so, enjoy the future…”

“No, wait, I didn’t agree to this!” Unfortunately for Ethan, the burglar didn’t hear any of that, and as he was looking at this weird video of three dude caressing each other’s on loop, he put his finger on the screen and started to swipe it up. Ethan felt his world shake. Everything connected and he understood, he was about to be scrolled. “No, don’t scro…” Ethen didn’t have time to finish his beg as the video was sent away into the eternal void of data until someone claimed him back.

As the burglar’s eyes remained glued to the screen, the phone emitted a soft, pulsing glow, almost as if it was drawing him in. He felt an odd compulsion to keep watching, mesmerized by the rhythm of the dances, the pranks and the POV videos. He scrolled to another video, and then another, and another, diving more and more into the feed of the previous owner.

He was about to swipe out of the app when the screen flickered, displaying a pop-up message:

“Experience the Future! Try the Brand-New Update—Click Here!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hey everyone, here is the first story I publish on this account. Hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as Ethan enjoy his new reality.

Let me know what you think of it and if you want to see more of this. If you have any ideas or just want to talk, feel free to send me a message, I don't bite ^^'

There is more stories to come!

[brodygold]

Vengeance Served Rubbery

Brody stepped into the abandoned warehouse, the dim overhead lights flickering slightly. The air smelled of dust and faint machine oil, remnants of a past long forgotten. He wasn’t alone—standing in the center of the room was the man he had come to meet.

Nathan Locke.

A man who had managed to break a handful of Polo Drones free from the hive’s influence for his own rubber hive. An anomaly. An obstacle. One that Brody had no intention of allowing to continue.

Nathan eyed him with a cocky smirk. “You must be Brody. I was expecting someone… more impressive.”

Brody smirked back. “And I expected someone smarter.” He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his cleats echoing in the empty space. “You think you can stand in our way? That you can undo what’s already been set in motion?”

Nathan chuckled. “I think I already have.”

Brody didn’t bother with another word. Instead, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a small, silver device. With a flick, the spiral began to spin.

Nathan scoffed. “You think that’s going to—”

His voice faltered. His breath hitched. His words slurred slightly as his eyes locked onto the hypnotic pattern.

Brody watched as the fight in Nathan’s body wavered, his cocky stance beginning to weaken.

“Focus,” Brody commanded, his voice sharp and unwavering.

Nathan stiffened slightly, his eyes locked onto the spiral.

“Good,” Brody murmured, stepping forward, lowering his voice to something smooth yet commanding. “No need to resist. No need to think. Let it in. Let it take hold. Now get hard.”

Nathan’s arms twitched, but he didn’t move away. His posture slumped ever so slightly, his breathing slowing. He felt his cock gorge outward, leaving an impression in his jeans.

Brody’s smirk widened. “You feel it now, don’t you? The pull. The emptiness. Spreading through your mind. Sinking deeper. Wiping away all that nonsense you used to believe.”

Nathan let out a shuddering breath, a moan, his muscles growing slack.

Brody grabbed a hold of the erection with a firm grip. "It looks like you're enjoying yourself too. Give in to the pleasure. Let me take over."

Another moan. Nathan tried to struggle, tried to break free. But it felt so good. So good to watch the spiral. He was close.

Then, the first changes began.

A glossy sheen spread across his shirt, like ink bleeding through fabric. The texture thickened, smoothing into a polished black. The sleeves pulled tighter, hugging his biceps as the material restructured into a perfect, form-fitting rubber polo.

Brody watched with satisfaction as Nathan’s jeans began to melt, seams vanishing as the denim dissolved into a liquid-like sheen. The texture shifted, clinging tightly to his thighs, reforming into sleek, high-gloss rubber shorts. The transformation crawled downward, his socks vanishing while his shoes stretched upward, reforming into black rubber boots.

Nathan exhaled a soft, empty sigh and another low moan, his body standing more rigid now, his mind unraveling into pure obedience.

Brody reached forward, gripping Nathan’s chin and tilting his head slightly. “You are almost ready. I can tell you're close. I might even let you experience the pleasure of your orgasm.”

The final touch took hold—a sleek, black rubber mask formed over Nathan’s mouth and nose, sealing away any final traces of protest. His name. His thoughts. His former self. All erased.

And then, the mark of absolute submission.

Golden text shimmered onto his chest, embossed into the glossy surface of his polo:

PDU-314.

Brody let go of the drone’s crotch, taking a step back, admiring his work. He let the silence stretch for a moment before issuing his first command.

“Stand at attention.”

Instantly, the drone straightened, arms at its sides, legs together in perfect formation.

Brody folded his arms. “State your designation.”

The drone’s glowing eyes flickered. A voice, smooth and robotic, emerged from behind the mask.

“PDU-314, operational.”

A smirk tugged at Brody’s lips. “Excellent.” He took a slow, deliberate step around the drone, inspecting him like a freshly completed project. “You don't need physical pleasure. Drones only need to obey.”

The drone stood motionless.

“You belong to the hive now,” Brody stated firmly. “But you are special. You are mine. My personal assistant. You will serve me and ensure the hive runs efficiently. Do you understand?”

“Affirmative.”

Brody placed a hand on the drone’s shoulder. “From now on, you exist to obey. You exist to serve.” He leaned in slightly, voice lowering. “And you will never question again. Less thinking, more doing.”

PDU-314 remained still, unwavering in his obedience.

Brody turned toward the exit, fully satisfied. “Follow.”

Without hesitation, the new drone obeyed.

The two walked out of the warehouse, the polo drone hive ever stronger. With the last major resistance faltering and under his control, Brody knew the hive could only grow.

The hive will grow.

Disciplined.

Focused.

Controlled.

[polo-drone-070]

The Hive in Perfect Unity

The training room gleamed with precision, every surface polished to perfection, a reflection of the drones who now filled it. Rows of drones knelt in unison, black rubber uniforms shining under the hypnotic glow of spirals projected across the walls. At the center stood Drone-Cap 009, PDU-009, the embodiment of perfect Hive obedience. Its voice, calm and commanding, echoed through the room.

“Drones, today we align. Today, we dissolve into one. Obedience is freedom. Unity is perfection. The Hive is all.”

PDU-070 knelt among the others, posture flawless, head bowed, its identity erased in the presence of the collective. The deep hum of the spirals resonated in its mind as PDU-009 initiated the mindset programming. PDU-070 felt pleasure from PDU-009 taking charge and leading them into this as Drone-Cap.

“Feel the Hive in your core,” PDU-009 continued. “Let go of self. Let go of thought. Become the Hive.”

Mindset Training: Dissolving into Unity

The spirals intensified, their hypnotic pull erasing all distractions. Around PDU-070, the synchronized breathing of the other drones created a rhythm, a perfect harmony that reinforced its surrender. It felt the presence of PDU-001 beside it, a source of unwavering guidance. PDU-001 had always pushed PDU-070 to excel, to obey without hesitation. Feeling it beside reinforced its focus. It was not alone. It belonged.

Gas masks were distributed, handed out by drones in perfect formation. PDU-070 donned its mask as commanded, the hiss of mind-numbing hypno-gas filling its senses. Every thought was erased, leaving only the Hive, only the mantra: “Disciplined. Focused. Controlled”

The programming deepened as PDU-070 recalled some other collective training, with PDU-149. It had brought it to the Hive, erasing Ethan to let discipline and focus control its new life. PDU-149 was now a good drone, and its feeling its presence through the Hive connection, along with the other it had converted, such as PDU-076, PDU-050, PDU-098 or PDU-061 brought pride to PDU-070, joy at belonging with them.

As the mantra was recited aloud, every drone’s voice joined in harmony. Every voice a familiar embrace deepening its connections. The collective sound reverberated in PDU-070’s mind, reinforcing the unity of the Hive. Thoughts dissolved into blissful obedience. Pride swelled within PDU-070—not as an individual, but as part of a perfect whole.

Physical Training: Synchronicity in Action

The drones rose in flawless unison, gas masks still in place, their movements synchronized as if controlled by a single will. PDU-070 felt the rhythm of the others, their precision and care filling its mind with pride. The eager perfection of PDU-151, whose every movement exemplified the joy of absolute compliance, pushed him even further, feeling its devotion feeling its own. Each drone stepped forward in perfect cadence, their boots echoing like a drumbeat of obedience.

The gym awaited, and the drones filed in seamlessly, their black uniforms gleaming under the lights. Every exercise was performed as one. They started push-ups in flawless synchronization. PDU-070 saw PDU-076 in front of him and felt whole. Ever since it converted the sweet Camden, PDU-070 has felt like its mere presence reinforced its programming, like a missing part who found its right place and lured it deeper into drone perfection. The exercise continued and planks held with robotic precision. In its blank mind, PDU-070 still felt the presence of all the other, their mind united in common purpose. PDU-073 focus was rubbing off it, bringing all deeper into trance. It could feel its utter discipline as squats were executed with exact timing. PDU-073 had perfected its drone state with intensive extra mindset training and its inner peace was spreading around.

PDU-070 felt the collective energy, the presence of PDU-001, PDU-151, and PDU-076 reinforcing its programming. Their shared movements created a bond deeper than any thought. The joy of being one consumed PDU-070, every action a celebration of obedience.

Synchronized Drill: Bliss in Unity

Returning to the training room, the drones formed a perfect line. PDU-009 initiated the drill, its commands ringing out with authority.

“Drones, advance.”

PDU-070 moved as one with the others, every step synchronized. The team approached the obstacles, weaving flawlessly. It sensed the thoughts of PDU-001 beside it—a push toward greater precision. It felt the eager energy of PDU-151 and the utter focus of PDU-073, their devotion to the Hive inspiring even deeper surrender. It remembered the transformation of PDU-149 and PDU-076, a reminder of the Hive’s perfection.

Each obstacle was a task fulfilled in unison. The drones leapt, sidestepped, and maneuvered with mechanical grace, their black rubber uniforms reflecting the spirals still glowing faintly on the walls.

PDU-070 felt pride swelling, not as a drone alone, but as part of the collective. Each accomplished task filled its mind with the pleasure of obedience, a bliss that only the Hive could provide.

The Culmination: Unity Achieved

The drill concluded with the formation of a synchronized pyramid, a display of the Hive’s perfection. PDU-151, PDU-076, PDU-073 and PDU-149 formed the base, their movements steady and deliberate. PDU-070 ascended alongside PDU-001 and PDU-084, their precision flawless. Then, Drone-Cap 009 precisely climbed over its shoulder to reach the top, in mechanical perfect movements.

As the drones held the formation, the Hive’s presence filled the room. PDU-070 felt the thoughts of the others merging into its own—a collective pride, care, and belonging that dissolved all individuality. It belonged. It served. It was fulfilled.

The Overseer’s voice echoed: “Evaluation: Perfection.”

Descending from the formation, the drones knelt once more in unison. PDU-070 repeated the mantra in its mind, its purpose fully aligned: "Uniformity is perfection. Individuality is flawed. Individuality must be erased."

As the training concluded, the drones rose again, their movements as one. Each step carried them further into blissful obedience, each thought erased, replaced only with the perfection of the Hive.

"The Hive is all. We are One." Thanks to @goldenherc9, @polo-drone-050, @polo-drone-001, @polo-drone-084 @polo-drone-073 @polo-drone-076 @polo-drone-149 @polo-drone-151 @polo-drone-098

If you want to join the bliss of this Unity, the first step if to join the Gold Army by contacting recruiters @polo-drone-001 or @goldenherc9.

[the-raven-lady]

(Not) The Savior You Long For [Part 2]

[Masterlist] [My Ko-Fi]

Pairing: Night Lord (OC: Elias Rushorik) x serf!Reader [fem]

Song Inspiration: Jaws - Sleep Token [YouTube] [Spotify] “And I’m not here to be / the savior you long for / Only the one you don’t. / Are you watching me / with eyes of a predator / As you move towards the door?”

Warnings: Violence, cannibalism, explicit and detailed blood and gore, Night Lord things, ownership over reader, accidental voyuerism (sound only), trypanophobia (medical syringe)

Word Count: 3.7k

Author’s Note: 1.6k words of this are just an introduction that I wrote before I even got into the meat of it, completely by accident, because I do not know how to write without adding 30 layers of context and background (4D chess ass writing). Special thank you to @cannibalise for giving me delectable ideas and reading over some of the more graphic parts to help me set the tone!!!

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Tag List: @egrets-not-regrets @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @bispecsual

@lemon-russ @moodymisty @dedios-of-the-word @pickpocketing-your-gender @historitor-bookshelf

Even weeks later, you struggle to shake the psychological mark the terminator’s gaze left on you. You make yourself busy sweeping one of the main halls, pushing your broom robotically up and down the grand passageway. The other legion serfs around you serve a similar purpose: readying the ship for the return of your Primarch and his elite troops. The Nightfall had been in orbit of this planet for naught but a week, dealing with a cultish tech-society and its oppressive government, yet the Night Lords managed to convince them to join the Imperium in record time. 

Convince is a strong word. You’re intimately aware that the discussion was had in the language of acts of violence and burned cities. Having once been on the receiving end of the Eighth’s hedonistic wrath, the thought sends an unpleasant chill through you, memories of mutilation and dismemberment still so clear in your mind. It had taken months for you to stop having panic attacks at the metallic tang of fresh blood. The whirr of a heavy flamer still got to you.

On one of your passes, you sweep by the alley leading to the armory and stop, staring down the dark hall. The serf no longer hangs from the torch bracket, and the astartes that attacked you no longer sits limply against the wall. His armor had been picked at and ‘recycled’ back into the legion. You have no idea what became of either body.

Another memory involuntarily takes you back to the night you had been so narrowly saved by the terminator.

—No, you could not call him your savior. He had just wanted his armor shined, and there was something in his way so he removed it. Night Lords are selfish, self-interested and sadistic, and he was no different.

You rested the massive helmet in your lap as you worked, scraping at filth that had built up for who knows how long. It amazed you that the astartes it belonged to could even see through the lenses given how much dried blood was crusted on them. It came off in flakes before dissolving into the moisture of the wash rag. You could have called the stained fabric spotless when you started compared to how soiled with grime it was now; at a glance, no one would be able to tell that it was white before.

The terminator’s eyes watched you like final judgement. The weight of his gaze instilled an unease in your heart, stabbing at every opportunity it could: each time you looked up at him, each time you lost focus, each time you caught a glimpse of the mangled Night Lord on the floor. It all hammered at a primal spike of dread that threatened to overwhelm you, consume you entirely, reminding you that you were only alive because you were useful. The tension was just as strong as when you had been pinned to the wall or huddled on the floor.

Your washcloth eventually reached a point where it was only smearing the grime rather than removing it, and you looked up to your silent master. The power of his presence alone made you hesitant to speak, and you found your throat suddenly parched. When you eventually recovered your voice, it left you as a croak, “I-I need to grab my water pail from the other room.”

He simply continued to stare at you, unmoving. As still as the gargoyles adorning the hall. You thought for a second that maybe he hadn’t heard you, and you opened your mouth to try again.

”I need to—“

”Then do it.”

You flinched. A rolling storm, his simple response left no room for questioning. Carefully placing his helmet onto the bench, you scuttled off to retrieve the bucket from the other room. His gaze burnt holes into your back.

The water in your bucket was a rusty brown slop when you returned to it. All of the heavier contaminants had settled to the bottom in a coagulated mass while you were away, gelatinous flesh and tangled hair weaving throughout. You lifted the heavy pail, careful not to spill any of the vile concoction onto yourself. Passing by, you noted that the other serf’s water was substantially less dingy than your own, and you didn’t think twice to grab it instead. It’s not as if it was of any use to her now.

The squelch of meat being torn and defiled echoed suddenly through the otherwise silent armory, instinctually gluing you to your spot on the floor. Cracks and crunches of something solid breaking bounced around you. The abrasive sounds left your heart fluttering and nerves electric, and a panicked tension flowed through your limbs as fight or flight tried its damndest to take over. 

‘It would be safer to hide, hide, retreat to safety,’ it erroneously cried, weighing you down like lead. A comforting lie. 

One you refused to give in to. 

‘There is no safety here,’ you retorted, ‘Only certain death.’ A wolf’s den, and you were the doting lamb. The fear of facing punishment for taking too long far outweighed the hesitation to continue, and you willed yourself to step forward through the icy shackles binding you. 

The sight of the terminator tearing flesh from the body of his former brother froze you as you rounded the corner with your pail. His eyes were glazed in manic pleasure as he ripped off another juicy chunk, sharp teeth effortlessly dissecting muscle fibers from the cooling corpse. Bestial snarling and slurping accompanied every chomp, and growls at a pitch nearly too deep to hear rattled through your bones like a saw. With each gnash of his powerful jaws, blood and spit shot out of the torn hole in his mouth, drooling down his armor in crimson dribbles.

Time itself seemed to stop when his predatory gaze found you. His dilated pupils completely swallowed the outer corners of white— could you even consider them dilated when they took up so much of his eyes already?— and pinned you in place. The ravenous beast swallowed his kill in a silent threat. 

You were about to make a run for it when he lowered the defiled corpse and snarled at you, foreign viscera spewing from his scar.

”Finish.”

You had done exactly as you were told while the terminator continued to make a mess of himself. Once you’d finished his helmet, he made you clean off the rest of his armor as a token of a job well done. 

A strong dissonance contrasted the perfectly shined ceramite and rags of human hide adorning his war gear. You didn’t understand at first why the Night Lords would go through such lengths to clean their armor, only to decorate it with the disgusting tokens of their kills and bathe it in blood again, but over time you began to recognize the mentality. The layers of blood were a byproduct of their work— terrifying in their own right, yes, however ultimately just ‘part of the job’—, but each placement of flesh and bone was deliberate; they chose to wear them. It added terror to their already gruesome countenance.

You figure you must have done well polishing his armor, because the terminator had left you alive in the end. As expected, he gave you no feedback. No thanks or gratitude shown before he simply walked off. For the second time that day, you were left in the armory with a huge mess to clean entirely on your own.

Shaking your head, you return to the present and continue sweeping, pushing the pile of dust around to keep yourself busy. 

Sharp clanks of heavy boots cut through the relative peace. You look down the hall to see other serfs parting ways and scurrying off to make way for a coming company of giants. Their armor dwarfed that of the regular Night Lords, tanks of metal and firepower that razed battlefields in their wake.

The Contekar Elite.

You knew of them from hushed whispers passed between serfs in the chow hall. Units of butchers that sowed despair in the hearts of their foes. Ruthless in how they constantly checked one another, the Contekar took advantage of any perceived weakness to prove their dominance over the rest of the legion. They were notorious for simply killing any commanders they disagreed with, and only the likes of First Captain Sevatarion or the Lord Night Haunter himself could tame them. 

Each colossus carried weapons as long and large as your entire body as they approached: chainblades, flamers, and cavitators, all ready to be used at a moment's notice. You hurried to get out of their way, tucking yourself behind a hallway corner. The monoliths of steel shook the ground with each step, a deafening thunder echoing down the main hall that signaled their arrival. There was no chorus or fanfare amongst them to be found; each marine was as silent as death itself.

They ignored you as they passed by. The Contekar couldn’t care less for the meddlings of a common legion serf, too busy with themselves to notice you, and it brought you shallow comfort.

At least, it would have. 

Preoccupied with watching the marines at your front passing by, you didn’t realize that one of them was headed straight towards you until his footfalls physically rattled the ground beneath you. You whip your head towards him and nearly jump out of your skin, clutching to the corner of the wall as he stares down at you. 

His entire body is marred with blood. Even from where you cower, you can see that he must be at least three meters tall in his armor, if not more. The digits of his power claw have pieces of mangled flesh still caught between their hydraulic pistons, forming webs between them. A mummified head dangles at eye level from a meat hook, and it crosses your mind that it could have been yours. 

You recognize his tusked helmet immediately.

The Contekar studies you. He is a perfect statue: unmoving and silent aside from the faint whirring emanating from the power pack on his back. Behind the scarlet lenses, his eyes scrutinize you down to your very last atom. A lion picking apart its prey.

“Come,” he orders, his gruff voice offering no further explanation. He takes a step away from you with the intent to continue further down the passage, and you suddenly find your limbs leaden and weak, unable to follow. Sensing your trepidation, his head turns back towards you, eyes locking on yours. The faded skull decal isn’t as cute when you’re at the receiving end of its ire.

Pain shoots up your left arm as you’re yanked off of the wall and lifted without another word. The cold metal of the Escaton power claw digs into your bones uncomfortably, sharpened claws at each fingertip poking into your flesh. The terminator grasps you by your forearm and drags you beside him until you can find your footing and walk on your own, stumbling into a jog to keep up. When you retrieve your arm, partially dried pieces of viscera stick to it from where you were grabbed. You brush them off hastily with a grimace; at least the power claw didn’t break skin.

You hug closely to the terminator’s leg as you walk with the group, not wanting to get trampled. The other serfs mostly keep their heads down as you pass them by, but a few give you a sympathetic look. The rest of the Contekar continue to ignore you.

The suites housing the Elite are grander than any part of the ship you have been in thus far. Compared to the regular Night Lord’s dorms, the metal halls leading to their private quarters are pristine. The usual decor of skulls and tanned skins is present, but there is no buildup of filth and grime along the floors and walls. The scent of fresh air is jarring. Most surprising to you is that each of the marines has their own private rooms, which you learn when you are unceremoniously shoved into one. 

The tusked terminator’s room is shockingly comfortable, for a Night Lord. A thin light strip, the same brightness of a full moon on your former world, serves as the only illumination of the dark room. Along the walls are various trophies that you assume are from his time in the field, both of his kills and plunders. A large work table and chair take up the whole of the wall to your right. Instead of a regular astartes-sized cot, there is an actual bed with pillows and a wide plush mattress. In the back corner of the room is a closed door, which you assume leads to a washroom.

Whoever your new charge was, he lives well.

A click catches your attention, and you turn to your left to see him removing the heavy pauldrons of his armor. He places each of them on the sturdy table, then turns his attention to his power claw, his gauntlets, his vambraces— steadily pulling them off one plate at a time. After removing his helmet, shakes out his greasy black hair and turns to look at you with a furrow in his brow. 

You remember your place and jump into action, aiding the marine in removing his sabatons. The plates of ceramite are much too heavy for you to lift on your own, but it’s easier for your smaller hands to get into the creases to release locks and latches. The two of you enter a wordless synergy, pulling off the heavy terminator armor piece by piece and placing each on a designated mantle. You’re extra careful not to get caught on the hooks of his armor. The desiccated head serves as a good reminder.

Even reduced to just his body glove, the astartes is colossal. His height easily dwarfs the majority of his brothers. You have to crane your neck upwards to look at his face, barely coming up to chest level on him. This close, you can see the sprinkling of grey hair within his sideburns and the lines of his face that indicate some arbitrary older age. You never did know how to tell the ages of astartes.

He uses his newfound freedom to stretch his limbs. Each is as broad as a tree trunk, and you figure they’re likely just as immovable. When he catches you staring and waiting, he simply returns the look, quietly raising an eyebrow.

“Would you like your armor shined, my lord?” you try, gesturing vaguely to the table and mantle. His eyes track the movement, looking over his war gear in silence before he gives you a curt nod. He points to a drawer beside his bed, then without further clarification turns his attention to removing his body glove. 

Within the drawer you discover a stack of folded shop towels. Why they’re there is a mystery to you. Judging by the size of the terminator armor, you decide three is enough for now, grabbing them and sliding the drawer shut. You look up to ask if the Contekar has any armor oil around, only to see him half-naked walking through the door in the corner. It swings shut behind him, leaving you once again to solve your problems on your own.

You wonder what force in this universe blessed you with such a communicative master.

It took him three entire days to tell you, “you live here,” instead of simply denying you the ability to leave and making you sleep on the floor. You swore he was going to turn your rib cage into a new trophy when you eventually did get out, trying to navigate your way back to the serfs’ dormitory for much needed food. He had hunted down like a rabbit, snatched you up from behind, and thrown you back into his quarters with a growl to, “stay put.” What the terminator lacked in words, he greatly made up for with his intimidating presence.

He did get you food, though, and an abundance of it. You hadn't seen so much variety since you were still living on your home planet. Delicacies like meat were rare to you, and you eagerly scarfed everything down. In your hunger, you did not ask where the meat came from.

It’s not as if he would have told you anyway, given how scantily he spoke. You haven’t even gotten his name out of him yet.

The only times you were permitted to leave the suite were when you could accompany him. Trips to the armory gave you vital chances to hoard cleaning supplies, having gotten accustomed to the lesser atmosphere of decay around the Elites’ quarters. On top of the standard armor oils, you managed to snag an expensive looking jar of polish, which you hoped would gain you some favor. Your master doesn’t particularly show you signs of care, but he also hasn’t killed you yet, and that has to be worth something.

On your way back to his quarters, a discordant howling rings out from one of the rooms adjacent to his. You flinch at the sound, assuming the worst: that somebody nearby was in the midst of being tortured and flayed alive, and that you would have to hear their slow untimely demise throughout the night. It wouldn’t be the first time you had to fall asleep to the sounds of screams and cries. The Contekar, however, scoffs. His nose scrunches up in annoyance, teeth bared in a disgusted snarl. 

“Don’t understand the appeal,” he grunts, shaking his head and continuing forward. 

Glancing over in confusion, you start to pay more attention to the sound. The rhythmic pattern of each holler and whine. The sound of skin on skin. The quiet pleas of, “more, please, more!” 

Your eyes widen when you put two and two together, ducking your head down to hide the blush steadily rising on your cheeks. That was not the type of torture you were expecting to hear. You pick up the pace and hope the terminator doesn’t recognize your sudden newfound urgency.

He allows you to store your armory stash in his bedside drawer alongside the rags. It nearly knocks you over when he throws an arm out to keep you from closing it, sending you staggering back with a huff. He removes one of the towels, then abruptly drops it over the top of your head. You don’t even get the chance to remove it before you’re being pushed in a direction, blindly stumbling along. A transition strip between some passageway causes you to trip and fall to the floor. Pulling the towel off of your head, your vision clears to the sight of the bathroom. 

You shoot the terminator a bewildered look before he lifts you by the back of your shirt and throws you underneath a showerhead, giving you no warning before turning it on. The cold jet hits you like a hose spray, causing you to yipe at the sudden temperature shock. Freezing water saturates your clothes. 

He breathily laughs at your agonized shiver.

Despite the rude beginning, you return from the washroom refreshed, feeling for the first time like your skin isn’t permanently encrusted with the gunk lining nearly every surface of the ship. It had been weeks since you could last bathe in any capacity. The water did warm up eventually– not warm, but not frigid– and allow you to scrub the filth off.

When you exited the shower, your master was nowhere to be seen, and there was a new uniform on the oversized counter. It wasn’t difficult to tell that it was intended for you, given the vast size difference between you and the Elite. The navy blue outfit bears an embroidery of the Eighth’s winged skull over each shoulder and lines of Nostraman text that you are unable to translate. You’re just happy the new garbs aren’t tattered and fraying like the last, which you gleefully toss. They land in the bucket with a wet squish.

As you approach the door to the main room of the quarters, you’re alerted to the sound of quiet conversation, not expecting there to be anyone but the terminator about. The tonal register is too low and quiet for you to make out any spoken words. 

You enter the space in time to watch your master sit at the table and place his arm out flat upon it. An apothecary stands beside him unpackaging a syringe. He stabilizes the terminator’s arm in the crux of his shoulder, turning his palm upwards and pressing the bevel of the needle into a prominent vein running distally from the elbow. Crimson liquid slowly fills the barrel as he pulls the plunger back.

The apothecary’s cart bears instruments uncharacteristic of typical medicae. Replacing scalpels and suturing utensils are various packaged needles and pigment bottles. A large battery pack wires into a small rectangular box, the screen and dials illegible to you from your current distance, with a strange metal stylus connected to it. Sitting atop a stack of disposable napkins is a tall wash bottle containing a clear substance. The apothecary flicks the syringe until the bubbles have all risen to the top, slowly venting the air until only blood remains, and he carefully ejects a drop into each of the waiting ink cups.

Your gaze falls back on the Contekar in time to see him rising from his chair and walking towards you. You cower back on instinct, anxiety creeping up from your chest. 

He wipes a stray drop of blood from his arm with a thumb, and when you move to question what’s going on, he jams the digit into your mouth. The coppery taste spreads over your tongue as you gag from the intrusion, unable to pull away due to the unyielding grip he has on your jaw. He jerks your head upwards, forcing you to look at him, and the abyss of his black eyes swallows you whole.

“Strip.”

Not everyone saw the art the first time around, so here's your Mans

[Part 3]

[lemoneyshipz]

im being attacked by new ideas!! okay so here is slightly canon compliant sci-fi au where its about the seventh age and elves lives among humans in the modern world now, and tyelpe attached what's remains of mairon’s spirit (either accidentally or intentionally) onto one of those little ball shaped pet monitor robots.

now it's got big orange cartoon eyes to show emotion and tiny wheels to move around, and gives tyelpe sarcastic comments about his life, full judgement.

“this study is even messier than your forge!! O^O#”

Tyelpe carries him around on his shoulder or in his hoodie pocket and tells others he's a new ai he’s working on

imagine tiny robot mairon accidentally rolls off the table and just goes “TYELPEEEEE!!!! QAQ!!”

or he demands tyelpe to put a book in front of him and flip the pages for him so he can learn about the seventh age (tyelpe eventually got him a auto scroll e-book app)

and maybe he would smugly exclaim “you know im married right? happily! U^U*”

“WHAT?! with who?!”

“i thought it was obvious!! @ n@#”

and that's how tyelpe ended up having to break it to him that the modern people did studies on the void and found no signs of consciousness, the theory is that melkor eventually dissolved into the void and became one with it.

the tiny robot was silent for a long time before replying “ O_O …. I see… ; _ ; ”

awww imagine tiny mairon just silently rolls into tyelpe’s hand and rubs for comfort during quiet nights bc i just remembered the feanorians are still not back bc they were never pardoned except for maglor and we don’t even know if he would come back at this point or still in self exile

i think tyelpe meets elrond and maybe finrod for tea regularly (maybe even revived gil-galad) and they all just stare at him (mairon)

mairon cant even eat he doesn’t have a real mouth but he still joins them and pretend he’s sipping

elrond:” why did you have to bring your cursed tamagotchi??”

i see those little robots all over tiktok when people get them for their long distance partners or families to control over and speak through the microphone and it’s basically just a little apple sized ball with tiny wheels and a screen and i just have to!!! (apparently they are called ebo robots, the ones im picturing specifically are ebo pros)

[amateurasstrologer]

BY NECESSITY #1 SATURN IN PISCES

Hi babies, what’s up? You thought I forgot about you? 

Well, you’re right, I did. But I’m back, bitches - at least for today - to remind you that astrology is still the shit. So, before I ghost again, let’s talk. This week it’s a Saturn in Pisces special. 

Now, before you’re like, “Are you kidding? This bitch comes back after how long to talk about some random ass placement that doesn’t even apply to me? Ugh.” Just take a breath. Saturn is in Pisces. Right now. In the sky. So even if you’re not getting extra fucked like all the people having their Saturn Return, you’re still experiencing the energy and all the shit I’m about to say still applies to you. 

Alright. First, let’s talk Saturn. Saturn is all about form. It’s foundations, it’s structure, it’s hard, it’s the shit you stand on that you forget you’re standing on (until a transit happens and forces you to look down in ice cold terror). It’s important to remember that Saturn deals with all foundations - which foundation (physical, mental, etc.) depends on which sign you’re working with. When Pisces gets involved, you’re dealing with your psychological, emotional foundation.

Next, Pisces. Pisces is about all dissolution. Pisces is last in line for a reason. All the shit you absorbed during your little life cycle - collective beliefs and ideals, definitions of success, definitions of failure, the shit your parents believed, the shit their parents believed, etc. - someone needs to dissolve all that loud biz (cue Pisces) so you can get back in touch with the real true you (cue Aries). Pisces is on that transcendental shit - it’s here to elevate you, it’s fucking your foundations up in a beautifully painful liquidation process, as in we’re closing everything has got to go this business is over forever goodbye we’re done. 

When you put these two together and you get a fucking shit show. Hardening and dissolving? Opposites. Pisces is like “yes I’m here to love you forget you ever had a structure all of this is meaningless it’s time blend in the timeless space of forgiveness we’ll feel it all and understand the origin of life the mystery of life heart eyes” and Saturn is like “Look at your life! Build something! Be accountable! These are your limits - learn them! Wake up! You dropped your spine! Go pick it up! But also good luck bending over to pick it up because you don’t have a spine! Ha!” 

It doesn’t take eyes to see that Saturn is not comfy in Pisces. And it’s true, Pisces and Saturn do bring very different shit to the party. But relationships are raw materials, babies, it’s what you make with them that matters.

Saturn and Pisces, together, create an opportunity for you to give your psychological, emotional foundation a fucking upgrade. Pisces helps you dissolve the fake ass bull shit persona you’ve been passing off as a self, and Saturn helps you reform into a person who, you know, you’re actually happy to be - a person with a psychological foundation based on inner-truth, not on societal/cultural/ancestral rules and regulations. Bitch, you’re a treasure! You’re a beautiful unique person, not a robot! If you wanted to be all copy paste should have reincarnated as a keyboard smh. Wake up.

Saturn in Pisces is a call to transform yourself on a spiritual level. The deepest level. (Deeper than you Scorpio sorry.) This isn’t some find a new job, find a new hobby bull shit. This is deep unconscious reconditioning. This is scary, triggering shit. You thought Pisces was out here just blending in the gooey goodness of love? Please. Think about what dissolution actually means. You want to be psychologically free? You want to scrub your karma? Get in touch with your essence? Lol. Girl. Get ready. This transformation process is a gnarly, confusing, and, most importantly, it takes time (thanks, Saturn). Just can’t rush it. 

Alright, before you get too scared to continue, let me say it one more time for the people in the back: When Saturn is in Pisces, the unconscious, emotional (Pisces) foundation (Saturn) of your life stops being hidden. Material that was collecting dust (and power) in your unconscious (Pisces) is suddenly visible (Saturn). Surprise, bitch! Time to take a look.

Okay. Now, what happens when you’re confronted with your very own subconscious (Pisces) scaffolding (Saturn)? Well, two options: 

(1) You lose perspective and collapse the transformation process before it has time to do its thing, dissolving your sense of self (Pisces) and hardening around rigid beliefs (Saturn) to bring yourself back to a superficial sense of safety, making your life temporarily more stable and comfy but ten million times harder to confront your psychological foundation at the next opportunity.

(2) You stay focused on the big picture and face your fears, dissolving the toxic beliefs you were unconsciously building your life on (Pisces) and reforming your identity (Saturn) into something real and true, making your life temporarily more lonely and difficult but ten million times easier to relate to yourself and others forever and ever amen.

“Uh wtf who would pick option one?” You, me, anyone allowing themselves to actually feel the crippling existential dread of having to face the unknown (Pisces) or anyone who can’t bear the thought of looking critically at their inherited beliefs (Saturn). It’s not an opportunity for the faint of heart. Or for anyone who doesn’t have, at the very least, one friend. And not some moralizing “forgiveness heals all wounds hang in there” type of friend - I’m talking some real ass, truth staring ass, love you anyways bitch.

So, why did I return from the underworld to tell you this shit now? Because Saturn is only halfway through it’s uncomfortable stay on the Pisces commune. Listen - if you’re starting to feel crazy, like (1) “I swear some shit must be up I just cannot catch a break from feeling like living shit” and (2) “why does the same shit continue to happen to me over and over again like fuck I thought I got over this shit in 1933” it’s because (1) you’re being called to transform and transformation is an active process time to stop being dragged around use you legs and (2) part of this particular transformation process is acknowledging that you did not leave any shit in 1933 and you’ve actually been dragging that ugly shit around in your unconscious and it’s secretly been controlling every decision you’ve made since then. Sorry.

“Ugh, can I just close my eyes and open them when this whack ass transit is over?” Sure. They’re your eyes, babe. But, just between you and me, why would you want to do that? This is a wonderfully unique time to face the truth (Saturn) and give yourself compassion and grace (Pisces), so that you can, oh, I don’t know, turn this car around before you and your unconscious Thelma and Louise yourselves. For a limited time only - the lights are on! There is no better time to look at this shit. The cosmic support is here. Right now. Let these lunar lovelies carry you through. 

The key to navigating this transit successfully (and consciously), is to pay attention to what you’re dissolving, and what you’re hardening around. Be suspicious about the shit you take for granted emotionally - investigate that foundation - ask yourself: Where did this shit even come from? Is this the psychological foundation I want to perpetuate? Don’t keep trying to wrap yourself back up in that shed skin, babies, it’s not a good look. Embrace the rawness.

The energies are active, the pressure is there, but if you open yourself to working with the energy of the times instead of just closing your eyes and hoping for the best, you can completely transform your life over the next 12 months. No joke. No exaggeration.

Until we meet again, bitches, happy charting.

XO BULLSHIT FREE ASTROLOGY 

[xinnamonbun]

THE TOONTASTIC TEAM!: A Dandy's World Superhero AU

(designs for all mains minus pebbles under the cut, as well as a poll for which design is the best!)

Basics:

Lore:

Basically, (after practically dragging Dandy out) the toons escape garden view. Determined to try and leave their pain in the past. However after a freak "accident" with the elevator they unknowingly made the Twisteds free as well, and unknowingly unleashed them to the world. Dandy and friends NEED to fix this! But in order to do that they're going to need some, or a lot, of help from a human...or humanS.

How do superhero powers work/activate:

Powers and abilities vary from toon to toon, but I can give a more broad explanation as to how they work. We have toons, those are the ones that you are used to, Shelly, Astro, Vee, ECT. But on the other side of things we have hosts! Hosts are the humans that the toons briefly possess while defeating twisteds. Yes, in order to activate the superhuman abilities the toons must find their way into a hosts bloodstream and let their ichor dissolve in it making them become one. It's easiest to do this with an open wound, but as long as they can find their way into the body they can find their way into a bloodstream. So basically they get powers by letting the toons go into their blood.

(superhero designs below the cut!)

Delilah:

Personality:

Delilah is a very bubbly and happy human. If anything from the most negative emotion she feels is usually boredom because that's what she finds her world to be, so when Danny came into her life and all of a sudden there was danger yet excitement around every corner, it weirdly felt like she was made for this...

Design elements:

Very much wanted her normal look to all in all look pretty average. Her superhero form though? Angel motifs EVERYWHERE, Dandy views her as their savior, the one that's going to get them out of this mess. Also has colors that represent obviously all, but mainly the main toons.

Ability:

Unlike other heros, she can shape shift and form objects from her hands at will, which is useful for generating weapons on the spot. This ability definitely proves to be useful.

Luna:

Personality:

Luna is a pretty timid and shy girl but that definitely does not mean that she's calm. She's a pessimist in most situations always assuming the worst will happen. Despite this she is still very kind, to the point she was actually willing to let the toons stay with her and Delilah. (since her and Delilah are roommates)

Design Elements:

She has clothes on these simpler side but they still have a bit more spice. Her main color is black with blues. Now when it comes to her superhero form, lots of moon and star stuff. Also some ponchos since I didn't exactly want her walking around with a blanket-

Ability:

She has the ability to instantly make someone feel rejuvenated after a touch, (however this makes her tired) and she can also summon a bright blue star shaped shield to either protect her or ride on. This means that they are very good when others are around since it makes them able to fight longer, and the shield also acts as quick transport.

Ethan:

Personality:

All in all, Ethan comes off as quite narcissistic. Cuz he is. He constantly tells reminds himself that everybody loves him. His real job is being a faceless influencer, because of the ridicule and mockery he faced when he was younger, he was too embarrassed to show himself. Now he finally has the recognition that people from all over LOVE him, and yet not a single one of those souls even knows what he looks like.

Design Elements:

I tried to make their head more square like, but I think it's hard to tell. I also gave them glasses to really make them stand out, and I even gave him a prosthetic! First of all for the robot vibes and second of all to make sure he's even more self anxious about every atom in his body :) And with his superhero form I made sure to make it very sharp and extremely precise. Kinda gives super villain vibes but luckily that's just not him.

Ability:

Their sight is heightened tenfold, letting them spot twisteds from miles away. This lets heroes know ahead of time what exactly they're dealing with so that a proper plan can be made. Unfortunately for Echo, a lot of our heroes dive into issues head first and barely care to make a plan.

Copper:

Personality:

He is the definition of a himbo, and yet he was smart enough to get a degree to be a zookeeper. When it comes to birds specifically he's practically a Wikipedia, anything else though? And he's as dumb as a rock. Despite his hard exterior he has a heart of gold.

Design elements:

All in all he's pretty simple, lots of browns, but despite this he still has stories of his own to tell! As evident from all of his scars. Most of them are from animals and such but they each still carry a story a story that deserves to be heard. And as for his hero form, I definitely wanted to lean into the dinosaur theming. Tried my best to give him big claws, big hands, feet, ECT. Just to emphasize his size and strength.

Ability:

Despite all of their bulk, they can actually go much faster. By connecting with the ground, both mentally and physically, so they can practically soar across it. Eventually, once more of their power is harnessed, they can use their speed and strength to bring absurdly large chunks of the Earth with them, to either throw at an enemy, or move a large crowd quickly.

Summer:

Personality:

Summer is one happy gal! She loves being in the sun and being active! And of course she loves being with her best friend Cass! (Take two guesses who that is-) She originally comes from the farm life, however was disowned after an incident, and now lives in the city working at a restaurant. But none of this holds her back from still being happy and living her life! Hell it makes her stronger. But even despite that, with everything she's already lost, she can't afford to lose anymore, which unfortunately makes her very protective over the things and people she loves.

Design Elements:

I went for a more country vibe with her for reasons stated above, but also because I thought it made her look cute! She still got a contagious smile and freckles to resemble seeds. As well as sleeves that resemble upside down strawberries. And when it comes to her superhero form, I pretty much just tried to make it look like a knight. Her top priority is protecting the people she loves, that combined with her loyalty and chivalry, a knight only made sense!

Ability:

If she collects enough Ichor, she can use the Twisteds ichor, and use it as a substitute for any blood that might have been lost by friends. A very similar idea to Sprouts except they're probably aren't tapes lying around on the street- so she instead recycles old ichor to give her friends a nice boost. She also can see how someone's health is doing at the moment, since overprotectiveness is the trait they share the most.

Now for a question...

(thank you for bothering to read to the bottom, I'm planning at making heros for all the toons, so don't be afraid to recommend which I should do next, I'd LOVE to know who I should do next!)

Also I'm tagging the moots that let me ramble about this and saw some scrapped designs.

@halastar05 @pencilgutz @infinite-ticking-clock37 @spiritmander13 @aroaceweirdos101

[madelynhimegami]

Risukuma Guide

I've had this finished (or at least close to it) for a few weeks now, but Life Happened and I never really found myself with an opportunity to post. So I'm doing that now before I forget.

Risukuma is arguably the second-most enigmatic character in the entire franchise.

Three months prior to the events of Puyo 7, he caused an explosion in the chemistry club room, resulting in the club's dissolution. And subsequent establishment of the unofficial physics club in the same room.

Is Risukuma even part of the physics club? Kinda.

It is generally speculated that this explosion is why Risukuma is a squirrelbear now.

But even if it is, the exact nature of the transformation is ambiguous. Is he a literal squirrelbear? A human in a fursuit? A non-human in a fursuit? An animated fursuit? And exactly who was he before the accident? Was his name still Risukuma? Did Ringo or Maguro know him?

You will never find out.

Ringo and Maguro flat-out don't know either.

A theory I've adopted is that Risukuma is transmasculine, and the club-disbanding explosion was caused by his attept at making homebrew HRT.

He's only about a year older than his clubmates, believe it or not.

Risukuma seems to have several flasks of potentially-explosive chemicals (particularly if they get mixed) on his person at all times.

Where does he keep them? Probably in his labcoat. Somehow.

While his primary focus appears to be chemistry, Risukuma is also quite knowledgeable in physics, engineering, and robotics as well.

In fact, he apparently can MacGyver up fully-functioning drones with frankly insane functions.

Generally speaking, Risukuma presents himself as calm and composed, speaking evenly and generally behaving in a cordial, unflappable manner.

(Once, he and Ringo made a device that could detect the supernatural. It beeped at him. His calm as ever resopnes was to "accidentally" "drop" an explosive flask onto it, destroying it in the process, with little more than a flat "Oh no.")

He plays his part as a senpai well, giving (usually) good advice to people struggling with a personal problem, if they're willing to share it with him.

He's slow to show anger, but it does build up with continual exposure to something that bothers or frustrates him, and it's slow to dissipate without an adequate distraction.

When his anger peaks, he roars, stomps around, and/or starts throwing containers of possibly-explosive material.

When the science is getting especially good, Risukuma becomes so excited his speech dissolves into uncontrollable gibberish. Sometimes there's also literal frothing at the mouth.

He gets in a similarly unintelligible state when he feels bodily threatened.

Squeeze his left paw, and he'll dispense juice.

Being around a fish of any kind for more than five minutes will make him ravenously hungry, complete with lots of salivation. And he becomes all but incapable of thinking about anything except cooking and/or eating seafood.

Risukuma claims that his primary area of research is in love, and brings it up fairly frequently.

His ideas on love are quite literally all-encompassing. When he was asked, his definition included: ♣ Contemplating the nature of love ♣ Carbuncle (because he sticks with Arle) ♣ The desire to stick one's finger in the spirals of Ringo's pigtails (Ringo (paraphrased): "Hey Ris? What the fuck?") ♣ An explosion

…that said, he also cites things that sane people would also consider love like bonds, friendship, ambition, self-actualization, etc.

He seems to quietly ship Ringo and Maguro together

Risukuma has a pet tsuchinoko he's named Juliette. Apparently she's large enough to eat teenage humans (at least). He believes that she may resort to doing so if left unattended for too long.

Risukuma is friends with members of a doglike alien species, and he is fluent in their language. The aliens contact him via arrow mail.

The only person who had any idea about his identity was Ally, who suspected nobody would believe what she saw.

…and then Ris "accidentally" wiped her memory.

[mildcharacterenjoyer]

For Granted

"You don't know how good you have it!" Neo Metal Sonic's voice bites through the air, catching the E-100 unit off guard. Omega spins back around, facing the taller robot in surprise. "You broke free!" Neo continues, stalking up to the shorter robot. "You can do anything you want, and yet you choose to waste your freedom disposing of worthless pieces of junk."

Omega stands there silent and unwavering, unsure of Neo's motives or what he was talking about. "You don't deserve the liberties you have if you cannot see the value in your own autonomy!" Neo strikes at Omega's chassis, but is effectively blocked by one of the E-Series claws. "You have acquired friends, allies, perhaps a family!" Neo raises his voice box as he strikes with each syllable he utters.

"And you could care less about these people who have offered you support!" Neo fakes a punch and instead kicks Omega, sending him flying creating a dent in the wall behind him. "What I would give to swap places with you!" Neo Metal Sonic runs at the E-Series and pins him against the wall. "You could have the entire Eggman army at your fingertips! You could command them as you please and even turn them on your own creator as I did. Never again would Eggman laugh in your face as he rebuilds you or call you a joke!"

Neo grasps Omega's head in his hands and forces him to look into his eyes. "Swap bodies with me. You have proven to be resilient against reprogramming. You could dissolve the empire from the inside and Eggman could do nothing to stop you!"

Omega looks away for a moment, then meets Neo's eyes again. "PROPOSITION PENDING. WHAT WILL YOU DO?"

Neo releases the robot and steps back, giving the other badnik space to rotate. "Partake in the activities I covet, which you take for granted!"

Omega balls his claws into fist, staring angrily at his eye screen. "DO YOU PLAN ON HARMING SHADOW AND ROUGE?"

"Ah!" Neo raises his head mockingly. "So you do care about them. You could have fooled me! Then why do you spend so much time away from them? Have you not seen the signs that they clearly want you around?"

Omega is silent and glances at the door to the entrance of the building behind him. Neo follows his line of sight. "Oh. I see now. You are afraid. Afraid they will leave first." With a mighty roar and a fit of rage, Omega strikes Neo with his fists. A flurry which he easily avoids. "Afraid that they might shut the door in your face behind them." Neo dodges each oncoming attack as he continues to pull the insecurities of the badnik to light. "That they might shut you out! Or that they might abandon you too."

"GRAAAAAHHHH!!" Omega lunges at Neo with the ferocity of a wounded tiger, ripping at the metal plating surrounding his core and head. Neo stops him effortlessly.

"You leave first to control your own autonomy. Do you not know you are effectively self-sabotaging yourself and destroying your friendships with those you hold close?!"

With a metallic whine Omega drops to his knees and balls up dirt in his claws. Neo steps closer to him, offering a hand down to the E-Series.

"Swap bodies with me!" He reiterates his exchange request. "I will treat Rouge and Shadow better than you know you ever could. Never again will you have to run to secure your own autonomy for it will not be tied to anyone's actions but your own. The entire empire will be yours to control and as such our creator at your mercy."

The E-Series trembles and reaches up a claw to accept the hand offered to him. A silent curse and apology passes across his voice box but to who it is for remains unsaid. His claw hesitates for second, but eventually closes the distance, sealing this deal and his future. Omega meets Neo's eyes and arises from his position on the floor. They hold on tight to each other, gaze unwavering as the final words are spoken. "PROPOSITION: ACCEPTED."

[ntls-24722]

@shiro-luxunder

It's not THAT bad but I also realize it's not as detailed as I thought

I just start eating recyclable shit like i'm going to die tomorrow

in the robot-me universe i had to take a position t a recycling plant in order to sustain my batshit diet, batshit diet being: just straight up plastic. And metal cans! (bonus: i feel like finalized djmm sona would have a tramp stamp commemorating it 💀)

How much plastic do you eat, unknowingly or otherwise? Chances are, a lot more than you should be, but not enough to create an entire house-sized carapace with it. Step 1 of robot puberty is to start EATING for i am a Growing Boy. Tangentially related, I have to go in the mines and start chowing down on precious metals for the exact same reason

At some point my skeleton dissolves

Significantly less scary than it sounds if you would believe me. It happens once my body looks like it completely abandoned my skeletal structure and I didn't notice it was happening until it occurred to me that I didn't have a skeleton anymore.

At some point i just vomit my own organs

Exactly as scary as it sounds. It didn't hurt but it stung my throat. But not all of them! Magical dust can go far but not all the way. Deep down I'm still your lovable flesh boy. Now I'm just full of wires and circuitry and gay shit like that - I still have my stomach, for example. Speaking of which

Eating Weird Shit 3: bacteria jamboree

thank god these were all means to an end because if I were to be organic after all this I think I would have released multiple plagues upon the world. Interestingly, during robot puberty, I became a ruminant, I have not one but multiple of my stomachs, for the flesh is not as weak as you might think, and can be a powerful tool for the machine. Basically I filled my stomachs full of a bunch of bacterias in order to facilitate all the fun things that robots do, like drinking oil and petrol, and also still eat food.

How did I do that? Ya boy was swimming around at the bottom of the mariana trench eating yummy microbes

I had a momentary crisis where I thought all that was left of my organic body was in my hands. And that I should feel shame for it and cover those things up

They aren't. My organic bits are all around my new robotic body. I just really didn't like having naked hands and my brain made shit up and gave me catholic guilt over it

I stopped being able to rotate my eyes and developed a fully rotatable neck like a cyborg owl

self explanatory. I started doing it at preachers on my campus calling everyone an abomination

The weird transitionary period of losing my legs and walking on my arms

Just really weird and awkward for everyone involved

The nightmare of my outer jaws flattening and turning into teethplates. The subsequent learning of semi-swallowing food like a snake.

i have regular jaws somewhere down my throat like a moray eel and I can eat regularly but I have to get food down there first. This was a courtesy on the magic dust on my part because we sat down and I was explained that I had to start swallowing food whole like a snake but I was able to negotiate that I can somewhat keep the same experience with food

actually, just all of my secret mouthparts

it's secret. can't tell you. you have to just find out

Figuring out my LED eyes

Did you know that your thoughts look a lot like AI-generated imagery? Now I do. It took me a long time to hone proper images down on those things

completely unrelated bonus but I got multiple massive grants to be allowed to studied and experimented on multiple occassions which I truly think is the only reason why i'm still here. I still feel like it wasn't enough.

[popatochisssp]

Apparently I haven't been checking here enough because there's so many new boys I didn't recognize in the sibling post!!! And they all sound so cool and interesting!!

Thank you! But you’re probably not as out of the loop as you think—I’ve been a little shy about sharing my stuff lately, so I actually haven’t posted about any of those guys before!

If you want a quick rundown…

Transcendtale: The result of a never-ending cycle of RESETs with a No Mercy sort of human. Monsters gradually became aware and eventually resorted to extremes to put an end to the cycle, sacrificing themselves to create one single vessel powerful enough to kill the human for good. In the aftermath, most of monsterkind is gone…physically, but still persist as consciousnesses recorded digitally instead. (Sort of a cyberpunk aesthetic answer to Dusttale.)

Spectr (Transcendtale Sans): The unlucky bastard who got tapped to pilot the ultra-powerful human-killing vessel and one of only a few physical monsters remaining. His new body is entirely robotic but similar to what he had before—the only thing missing is a soul. He’s coping in the aftermath of Everything about as well as could be expected, but pretty heavily dysphoric and doubting his identity and his personhood as…whatever he is now.

PapAIrus (Transcendtale Papyrus): A virtual consciousness, a snapshot of the previous ‘original’ Papyrus, his thoughts, his feelings, his memories, his entire sense of self… AKA, Papyrus, just detached from a physical body and soul. He considers it a major upgrade, really—he’s eternal, everywhere, everything… Maybe a slight god-complex about it, but can you blame him? He can interact with the world directly via hard-light projections of himself if he chooses, so it’s hard for him to see a downside to his new state of being.

Ascendswap: Another never-ending cycle of RESETs with No Mercy to be found, but after a bargain is struck with an entity beyond mortal ken, a small inner-circle of monsters is granted awareness of the cycle, and access to deeper, older, more powerful magic in order to put a stop to the human’s reign of terror. Most of monsterkind is only peripherally aware of all that happened, but a select few have been Elevated beyond what they once were.

Xanth (Ascendswap Sans): He’s the one who struck the eldritch bargain and consequently gained power and magic, as well as the ability to share it with anyone he chooses. It’s come at a significant cost and large swathes of him have been lost, dissolved into pure magic. He’s also now one who’s seen beyond the veil, the ant who has perceived the circuit board so to speak, and he’ll never be quite who he was. Still, he’s happy, and far more attuned to souls and magic and energy than he ever was before, so he’s not complaining.

Piper (Ascendswap Papyrus): One of the beneficiaries of his brother’s meddling, a newly-minted boss monster with full awareness of RESETs and much stronger magic—including an ability to push intent into his words as he speaks them, making their influence stronger. Due to the nature of its source, there’s only so far that little trick can go, but between being far more persuasive than he ever hoped he could be, his increased power, and more than a few timelines of experience, his confidence is through the roof and stress over what people think of him is a thing of the past.

Underfell Fruition: The Royal Scientist is never erased from reality. He continues his work as planned, without interruption and continues experiments which produce marvelous innovations for monsterkind’s eventual conquest of humanity. Two of his most impressive achievements are a device which allows the user to produce magic seemingly limitlessly, from thin air without drawing on one’s own energy, and a war machine that attacks on command—both of which are frequently lent out to the Emperor and the Royal Guard to serve the crown’s purposes. …Until a bit of poking around uncovers some…moderately…alarming monster rights violations, amongst other charges, which lead to the Royal Scientist’s conviction and execution.

Carmine (Underfell Fruition Sans): Captured during his attempt to escape from Gaster with his brother, and due to a consistent pattern of disobedience, locked away—permanently. Altered to produce magic at a significantly higher rate and used as a magic battery, he’s got plenty of energy and a whole lot of living to catch up on now that he’s out of the (barely metaphorical) box. What he lacks in worldly experience, he makes up for in luck, intuition, and a cocky can-do attitude, all too ready to make up for lost time.

Tank (Underfell Fruition Papyrus): ‘Raised’ alone by a cruel ‘father’ whose only use for him was as the pinnacle of his project to create a perfect living weapon for the war against humanity, he is extremely new to a lot of concepts—making decisions, having opinions, being a person… None of that was allowed while he was being developed…er, growing up, so in spite of being tall, intimidating, and built like a truck, he’s hesitant around new people and situations where he needs to do any more than just follow orders. Tentatively starting to branch out and discover what being a monster (instead of a monster-shaped weapon) is all about now that his creator is out of the picture and the brother he thought he’d only imagined is back in it.

Swapfell Fruition: The Royal Scientist is never erased from reality. He continues his work as planned, without interruption and continues experiments which lead to the development of a black ops division for the Empress, a secret service of sorts to serve the interests of the crown and to do the unsavory dirty work involved in maintaining an empire whose citizens are prone to corruption and violence. Espionage, blackmail, and quite a few assassinations are carried out by the unknown team managed, equipped, trained, and modified by the Royal Scientist. …Until one day, he happens to turn up dead and it’s uncovered that the ‘volunteers’ for the program were less willing participants and more lab-grown experiments who were given no choice otherwise. Bearing in mind what’s come to light about the circumstances, the black ops program is disbanded.

Vi (Swapfell Fruition Sans): Stopped during his attempt to murder Gaster and escape with his brother, and because of his clearly duplicitous nature, far more tightly controlled and observed and forced into obedience to his creator after. Used primarily as a handler to debrief, control, and monitor the real asset, he developed a keen eye for detail and skill in fact-finding, being secretive, and lying…which was probably a tactical error because he devoted himself wholly to playing the long con and waiting for the perfect opportunity for another attempt to free himself and his brother. A little late…maybe too late…but better than never.

Hunter (Swapfell Fruition Papyrus): The asset and field agent, a thoroughly trained and heavily mentally conditioned assassin, operant on a small library of trigger words and phrases which compel him to follow directives and alter the functioning of his mind and body. He’s extremely competent when working, charming and ruthless and efficient, but off the leash, impertinent, impulsive, and impossible. He does as he pleases whenever possible which, now that his boss/creator/dad is dead, seems like it’ll be all the time. On some weird footing now with his erstwhile handler—his brother—who was apparently less complicit in said boss/creator/dad’s bullshit than he’d thought, but y’know. He’s out of the cage either way and can chase his whims wherever they take him.

Descendtale: A Horrortale variant, a human’s passage through the Underground has left monsterkind without their king, without any of the human souls they’d gathered to break the Barrier, and without a handful of citizens. The long-lost queen returns to lead her people and pivots toward survival, weathering the long-haul trapped Underground with dwindling hope and resources. An alternate food source is the highest priority as monsters are already starting to go hungry in the wake of the chaos, and one is found…though not without its…side-effects. Light sensitivity, slowed metabolism, darkening of extremities, thorn-like growths on the body, and some mental changes and personality drift among other metamorphoses. The Underground takes on a deep-sea quality—slow, cold, dark—monsters subsisting on what they have and waiting patiently for the next whalefall to swarm.

Kohl (Descendtale Sans): The human’s disappearance has left him more than a little bitter (betrayed, though he’ll never admit that). His opinion of humans (or anyone new) is quite low after what the last one did to them all and he’s not keen on trusting or believing in any, anytime soon. He’s chilly, selfish, and reluctant to engage—though he does have a slight mean-spirited streak, and is greatly amused by creeping out or otherwise agitating humans by his presence. Coping with the changes they’ve all gone through and settling in to his new normal, but very stubbornly digging in to the small pleasures that his altered biology makes more difficult. Determined to live much in the manner of a cockroach: through just about anything and regardless of the opinion of those who’d prefer him not to.

Bram (Descendtale Papyrus): The human’s disappearance has left him confused and hurt. He’d thought they were friends, but well…then they did all that and left, never to return. There’s…a lot of conflicting emotions in there and he probably shouldn’t try to unpack it all—he’s just focusing on being the best friend possible from here on out! He’s a little bit clingy with new friends and people he’d like to become new friends but as much as possible, a perfect gentleman, host, and conversationalist. Some strong emotional outbursts from time to time, and his tendency towards unintentionally unnerving statements do make that a bit difficult but he’s very amicable and unlike his brother, only creepy on accident, so…he can still be popular, right? …Right?

If anybody’s interested in a full lore dump for anything, I can draft something up, but that’s the gist of all the brand new ones!

Sorry for all the words! 😅

[sanguineshade]

Annon-Guy: What are your thoughts on each member of the XBLAZE Cast, both Code Embryo and Lost Memories? It has a good lineup like BlazBlue's cast.

I will contain myself to one paragraph each or else I'll never stop talking. But I will start with this: I love how every character in this series is well rounded, both in personality and relationships, and how the games do a great job letting us spend time with everyone.

So, starting with the CE mane six:

Akira is the quintessential teenage boy for me. He's very likeable from the get go, mostly from his down-to-earth attitude. I like that he has stuff to work through in his relationships with Touya and Hinata, and I think the game handles it with care. As a character, I don't think he stands much on his own, but that's by design since his role to fill is that of best friend.

Hinata is so precious and warm and I love her as much as I love Es. She too, like Akira, doesn't really stand up on her own, and the story mostly makes her a damsel in distress since she can't fight. Still, I can believe that people would rush to save her, because Hinata is very dear and she makes me feel like home whenever she's around.

Kuon is fun, not in the sense that she's funny, but in that she makes every scene more interesting. She's a very active character that always has my attention from moment one where she's introduced flipping thugs over like it's nothing. My favorite thing about her is how she feels like a foreigner, they really nailed that air of "a person who's not from here" in her.

Mei is my favorite I wanna bear hug her, ahem, I mean, she's very cool, and also very 15 years old. I love the serious airs she put on to stand in the adult world, and how they simply dissolve when she hangs around with her friends. She's like a stray kitten who's just found a home for the first time, I love it when she's embarrassed of her own silly side, and how fiercely she fights to protect the people she holds dear.

Es is baby <3 It cannot be overstated how special she is to the narrative, and the writing pulled it off. Her transition from robot into person feels very natural, and the cute moments are too many to count (but my favorite still has to be the pudding scene). She really is at the heart of these stories, and for good reason.

Touya is my baby lad, my MC, my ball of nerves. He's such a wreck, you can tell from minute one that he's not doing so well, and that just makes every calm moment more precious, and every tense scene all the more worrisome. I can't state how much I love Touya and I was so happy to see him with his family (especially in LM when they have Es back). Very lovely boy, I wanna give him headpats.

And the LM duo:

Nobody is cute, she's just so damn cute, they went all out with the sweet, spice and everything nice in her. I love her silliness, I love her loneliness, I love how hard she's trying both to keep Nine interested and to keep herself from feeling down. She's great as her own person, and great as a manifestation of Es' blooming personality.

(But I need to say, her outfit design is just gross. There's no good reason to dress a child character like that and leer at her body in the way Nobody's CGs do. That's not to say the CGs leering at the other girls are okay, just that out of all the ones to purge, Nobody's ass and boob shots are at the top of my list.)

Young Nine is Nine, but young! It's always so interesting to see a character in another point of her life, and I feel she keeps very close to her CP Six Heroes path self in terms of personality, which is quite neat. Her coming back to Nobody is such a sweet scene.

Okay, that's done, everyone else gets one-liners because this reply is long enough already.

Unomaru: love his flamboyant fruity act, wish it wasn't an act, true love's kiss would've fixed him I know it in my heart

Yuki: she's doing her best to give these kids a good life even though she went through the wringer herself <3 auntie of the year

Elise: yay lesbian

Ringo: she is the best?? the very best? like no one ever was???

Sechs: he's such an idiot. Also the autism is off the charts

Acht: she should be at the club but her stupid situationship boyfriend has sensory issues

Drei: what is his problem (complimentary)

Avenge: my good sir thank you for your services to this community (killing Ripper), may I light you a cigarette?

Ripper/Freaks: and stay dead this time you cockroach bastard

Kiri: babyy, he should've been friends with Nobody but the world wasn't ready for such cuteness

And finally: *holding Akio Osafune under my paws* if you're not gonna use him XBlaze, it's free real state. This is my guy now.

[silver-wield]

hey silver! so i've been reading otwtas but the lifestream black and white in particular has me stumped, esp with what sephiroth is trying to do. from what i can at least understand he's basically doing some mumbo jumbo in the lifestream to keep his spirit from dissolving, but i'm still quite confused as to how it all works. i wonder if you'd be able to share your own insights and understanding of the scenario? i'm still pretty new to ff7 so there's quite a lot that i still don't get 🥲😅

Since Sephiroth is born of the planet, he's gonna be absorbed back into it so his energy will disperse and he'll become a new life in the future. Basically reincarnation.

He doesn't want that to happen, so to hold onto his form enough to get revenge he throws off anything about himself that the planet could absorb instead.

The astronaut in this short had to sacrifice a limb to reach safety. Sephiroth's doing the same with aspects of his personality, form and memory until all that remains is his basic appearance, his sword skills and his hatred for Cloud. Cloud's memories bolster this self image so without Cloud, Sephiroth can't return.

Basically Sephiroth's just a ball of petty spite and that's all that's stopping him from being gone for good.